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2003-06-10 - 11:21 a.m. dear ____ i write you letters, i write you letters in my head and still wind up thinking about you nearly every day. hating myself, hating you, nervous and awkward. but at the same time, i can't hate you. there's something about you that was always more than worth it. you've been more fucked up to me than she ever has, but i can't hate you. i can hate her, remembering every horrible thing that she's ever done. torturing myself and my friends are so sick of hearing it. "just get over it," they sigh, like it's that easy. i can write this letter because it's possible to convince myself that you don't mean those lies you've been telling anyone who will listen about me. i can convince myself that you're just saying them because the truth makes you uncomfortable, and in this case it threatens to destroy the most important thing to you. i don't know whose idea it was to start that particular rumor, or if anyone really believes you. it is a little implausible. but i know i fucked up. not just for that, but for so many things. yesterday i realized the full impact of what i did--reduced the most devastating thing that's ever happened to you as a clever poem, a good line. i reduced that and what can i say? i was 18, i was a poetry student and i was used to analyzing things in a detached way, without remembering that htere are people and experiences and blood leaking out of every word. i realized the full impact while reading a book of poetry by sherman alexie on the subway yesterday, and the full impact of what i did hit me. i was unable to read or think for a few minutes, i almost fell over and i wound up staring at my reflection in the subway window. i looked sad, scared and ultimately really stupid. i am so sorry, for that, for everything. i am glad, for the most part, that you're out of my life--i really wouldn't have been able to withstand that for too much longer. i think you're doing better now that i'm gone too. i hope so. ocean
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