ill-advised inquiries

"Have you ever written anything about me?" she asked, peppered with expectations. "No, I haven't" I remarked honestly, for it is not an artist's obligation or duty to compose anything for anyone. A writer gains inspiration from the things around him, the things within him, but rarely from those things that he has made every attempt to forget forever.

However, now that your memory gains ground on my pestilent soul, it is not the love and happiness I remember, but the heartache and hatred you cursed me with.

The love I had for you faded with the summer sun as autumn dawned on our relationship. The bitter winter provided a sweet and deserved taste of life's freedom, without your constant reminders of disappointment. The love that wouldn't last, you were able to shrug off with each new suitor. The love that wouldn't last, I let weigh on my heart for longer than I care to remember.

As I watched from a lonesome existence, with every ounce of bitterness and aversion, you taught me a lesson I will not soon forget. With each new boyfriend you accrued, I thought I was losing a battle of wills. Soon I would come to realize, these destitute relationships were even more capricious than our own. And once you found yourself alone like I, patterns of inebriated promiscuity would again creep into your weekly routines. Your malicious attempts to get under my skin, only strengthened my growing disgust of you and your schemes.

Every young man is to fall in love, and only very rarely is he never to fall out of it again. So the love we shared was doomed from the start, and despite what you may think, there's nothing that can ever change that. We will spend our lives apart. Wrought with emotion and reminiscent of past days spent in different ways, there were bound to be relapses. But in every way I have to say, those days are gone forever
only to be remembered.

If a writer is to write what he thinks, what then was I to write about you, the one who taught me malevolently how not to love another. Your whoring days and sluttish ways are branded in the forefront of my memory, despite their poor intentions implemented to portray your lasting love. The faint lines of which are drawn between love and hate. They often blur when mixed with a volatile dose of separation and delusions of betrayal.

The mistakes we both made in an attempt to forget the past left us with the scars of yesterday, and they won't soon be going away, inevitably damning future flings. We will always know what we did to each other. We will always know how we let each other down, in every way we hoped the other never would.

Though our lives have found balance for a time, they have also drifted toward either edge of the same scales. You say you still love me, but you don't even  know who I am. The persons we remember have lived and already died. All you love is having a boyfriend, someone to listen to your afflictions and put up with your bullshit, but I'm not so kind as to award you that which you think you deserve. Although I have lent a warm shoulder in the past, I am not and never will be again, a person you can rely upon. You may be my first, but I won't ever be your last.

So you ask why, I have never written a single prose or paragraph, but you should already know the reason. I have never deemed what we went through as inspiration, why should I commemorate a reciprocal act of treason? What you did to me and what I did to you was decidedly inexcusable, but what you did with yourself was candidly and blatantly vile. I don't care to guess what you're up to now, all I care to do is live my life without you, and with a smile.

Why you asked I really don't know, I'm sure you must regret
because when you ask me to write something about you
this is what you'll get.







This piece is dedicated to all men and their first "loves".