You always make me feel like I’m the one who’s wrong. Every small annoyance with you turns into a full-blown argument.
Like yesterday, when you didn’t meet me at the train station and left me there for hours, hours in the pouring rain.
I felt humiliated. Ashamed that I thought you'd changed.
Do you remember how you dealt with that?
You told me I’ve made you wait before, and I deserved to know
what it felt like.
That’s not a valid reason.
That’s not even close.
If our relationship is simply about revenge, how can it be healthy?
But you don’t seem to understand that. You just keep on pushing this “when I make mistakes, it’s your fault” narrative.
You know I hate it.
And I’m done.
I’m surprised you haven’t been able to tell that from my behavior.
You complain about me sleeping past 2 a.m. on the edge of the bed, but you never ask why that’s been happening.
You choose to not hear me crying myself to sleep, hoping you won’t wake up and be ready for another argument.
You choose to ignore the dark bags under my puffy eyes and instead, blame them on my diet.
You choose to shower me with insults when I try on a newly bought dress, saying that I’m greedy and don’t care about my finances.
Our arguments have reached a breaking point.
You know that.
“Just say it,” you remind yourself, knowing you’ll regret it if you don’t.
And then you unleash the most hurtful spattering of words imaginable.
It’s unfathomable how you keep surprising me, even now. You’d think seven years would have dulled the spark.
The spark—that’s another thing you’re aware of.
Whatever we have, it’s nothing compared to our passion and love and respect for each other.
We once had something beautiful, magical, wonderous.
Don’t you long for those days?
Don’t you wish that we could turn back the clock and start anew?
I know I do.
You’ve turned the beauty into something twisted, the magic ugly, and the wonder nonexistent.
You can still change it.
We both know you hold the power in this relationship.
That’s why you’re out now, gambling and drinking the night away at some faraway bar.
If that was me, you’d throw a fit.
The fear of me being in someone else’s lap would drive you into a neurotic frenzy.
That same fear is the reason the doors are bolted outside right now.
Keeping me cloistered won’t keep me docile.
I may not be able to get out of this house, but I am able to stay angry at you.
That seems like the new normal.
You do something that hurts me—something that pushes me well beyond my limits—I cry, I write, I argue with you, you make me cry again, and we go to bed frothing with emotions.
I’ve told my friends about you before.
Some say you’re kind and charming—we both know that’s how you are in public—while others warn me you’re a toxic, arrogant, jealous person.
The ones who’re convinced of your captivating nature blame me, accusing me of fabricating problems and overreacting.
You always agree with them, which infuriates me to no point—you’re supposed to be in a relationship with me, not them.
And the friends that insult you to your face? Well, you take them away from me. Deleting cellphone numbers and blocking social media accounts won’t keep me away from the people who’ve stood by my side for longer than we’ve been together.
I don’t know when you started all of this.
Maybe it was a year ago, maybe two, but you just snapped.
It was a little while after you were fired.
Our first-anniversary gift, the ruby necklace you’d gotten me, shattered in your quivering fists.
The housewarming vase your mother surprised us with all those years ago came next.
For the next few days, you drank our cabinets dry.
You don’t remember any of this because you were half-drunk when you came home.
I should have known it from your reeking breath and stench of sweaty skin.
You turned our house into a labyrinth of shattered glass and overturned sofas.
How could you not remember that?
How could you not remember me pounding your chest, begging you to stop?
How could you not remember me sobbing funereally?
Simple: you didn’t want to.
Focusing on the past dredges up too much pain.
It’s sad how the past holds so many similarities to our present.
You haven’t changed your habits, you’ve only amped up your anger and tolerance for seeing me shatter further.
Most people regret harsh words tossed around in the heat of the moment. Most people apologize. Most people change their ways.
Your regret comes from not being cruel enough, not fitting into
the stereotypical toxic masculinity figure, not making me sob more.
Your regret isn’t spent with hugs and apologies, it’s compensated for with inebriation and narcotics.
No matter what anyone tells you, you don’t care, nor change.
You’re so damn afraid of losing me that you’d push me away, pull me in, and keep me there. This game has been going on for too long, dear.
It’s not chess anymore, it’s a solo competition.
If you think hurting me makes you a winner, you’re sorely wrong.
You’ll be the true loser. You’ll wish you had won me over instead of losing yourself.
You’re not going to only lose me.
You’re going to lose the remaining pieces of your family, friends, coworkers, even that neighbor who wishes you happy birthday every year.
I hate you so much.
I love you so much.
And that’s why I stay. That’s why I’ve stayed so far.
But, dear, when you find this…well, I’m sure you’ll know what this is.
This isn’t another scribbled, tear-stained page.
This is an explanation for the pallid, limp body dangling from the
This is a good-bye.
This is a reminder that I will forever stay with you.