This is an open letter. Not to name names, but to expose and hopefully siphon the wretched feelings of hate I still carry for you, you who I dated almost four years ago now. I don’t admit my feelings of hate willingly—I believe hate to be strong and toxic and will poison the person foolish enough to hold it. But the reality is, I can’t think of you without saying something bad (I’m working on it…maybe not hard enough, but I will.)
What’s more, I’ve never experienced lingering feelings of disgust like this before. Not with anyone. I’ve often found myself hoping to see your name in the paper, involved in some scandal—or worse—and all just to validate the icky way I still feel about you, all just to be able to say, “Ha! I knew you were a sleazeball, you floundering jackass.”
But sadly, you’re actually a good guy. You’ve done nothing wrong to anyone or me—besides the injuries people inflict on each other during any standard relationship. I should also qualify what I mean by hate. I don’t spend all of my spare time stewing about you, nor do I wish you ill will, hoping you freakishly lose consciousness and walk into some random sinkhole.
I can’t even justify my anger in the scenario of you breaking up with me, because I was the one who ended things; I failed to see a future worth pursuing. The synchronicity just wasn’t there. So really, I’m at a loss.
But in the spirit of catharsis, here are some of the things that still cause me to shudder when I happen to unhappily reminisce about you, nicely wrapped in a ridiculous poem:
I hate that you couldn’t tell a story, not even to save your life,
your attempts were so annoying, I’d rather have been stuck with a knife.
I hate that I couldn’t laugh with you, that your jokes were dumb as shit,
your musings were so impaired to me, you had no sense of wit.
I hate how our arguments were often petty: useless, lame, and weak,
you managed to turn everything into tit for tat for weeks.
I hate how even though the sex was great, I felt so unsatisfied,
it was how you made me feel unfulfilling, even though I always tried.
I hate how your immaturity revealed itself on the last day we ever spoke,
but I guess that’s just the way it goes when you date an incompatible bloke.
I won’t go on despite being able to, especially since other grievances are far too personal even while keeping you under the veil of anonymity.
In the end, I don’t understand why you specifically conjure so much rage in me. Maybe the issue is that there are things we haven’t forgiven each other for, and until then, you’ll always be a sore spot.
But in the meantime, I’m hoping this embarrassing confession of still-petty grudges is the first step toward healing: a step toward releasing the anger, a step toward letting go of you completely.