All I wanted from you was a letter. I wanted to know, in your handwriting, that you loved me. That you thought I was beautiful and perfect. I wanted to know that you wanted me around. A year and some months. You knew I was waiting for the guy that would write to me, that would send me part of himself when I was far away. I thought my birthday would be the day I’d get a letter. I was so excited and then so let down. My mailbox was empty? I could maybe accept no letter, but just a little something to know you were thinking of me.
I broke up with you. Not specifically because of the letter, but it was a big part of it. I knew then. On my birthday. That we couldn’t be together because I wasn’t worth your words, your paper, your ink, your scent. I wasn’t worth the postage you’d have to pay.
You claimed you didn’t know I wanted one so much, but that’s bullshit. I gave you my school address for a reason. I knew you’d never visit, I’m 300 miles away and you’re not into making an effort. Now, knowing about the lies, the deception, and how much you took for granted, I’m glad the letter made me wake up.
You’re a learning experience, and that’s all I think of you now. I hope you never treat a girl the way you treated me, though I know you will because everything I’ve told you about your habits has since been forgotten.
The girl that wrote you countless love notes.