Dear Darling

Dear Darling,

I do not know if you will ever read this. It may well be that the next time we speak, you will tell me you never wish to see me again.

I would not blame you. I am the one who needs forgiveness, not you. Not in this, at least.

I have tried to cry. To let tears speak the truths that you no longer have a reason to believe as words. But tears seem petty and false.

I have acted. I have not been idle in what I have done, I have not gone on as though pure and clean. I know I am not.

I write, not knowing if you will ever read this, because words are still a solace to me, even if they are an anathema to you. Particularly words from my heart.

I have known, within my heart of hearts, that I was dangerous for most of my life. What dark power set that certainty in me, I do not know, but the truth of it is now clear as day before me.

I have prayed for you, you know? I prayed to God that He would provide me a partner, a friend with whom I could share this life and perhaps have some small part of the joy of heaven in this hellscape of a world. He gave me you.

I knew it was you, far earlier than you did. And so I waited, I let you be afraid and run from who God had decided we could be together, because I trusted that God would bring you back to me. I trusted that he would help you see what I see.

(Oh how that seems a cruel irony now.)

And return you did! You sought me, pursued me, chose to trust me. You gave me your heart, prayed that I would love you as you had come to love me.

(I was already half in love before you had even returned.)

But I lost myself. I do not think in words (perhaps that is why writing is a solace) but rather in images, in scenes, in emotions and sensations that take far longer to explain then they will ever occupy in the cosmos. Those thoughts, with all their speed, fill my mind with plans and interplays and concepts and angles and leverage and manipulations.

(So much, too much)

How can I ever say everything that I think? How can I possibly tell you about how I calculate the possible exits, how I dream of a world where love is the primary goal, where each friend is allowed to be a mess, a broken man can turn to other men and be aided without being thought weak or gay or some other thing that he may or may not be? How can I tell you of the stories that fill my mind, that are so plentiful that even if I spent the entire rest of my life doing nothing but writing, I would never run out of stories to fill pages and pages of books?

How can I tell you that I invited her to go shopping with me because I wanted a friend and she was the only one around? That I thought through, in a matter of seconds, the fact that even if I had the opportunity, I would never choose her over you?

How can I be faithful, in the way it is so often described, when any given moment is full of possibilities? How can possibilities be both so exciting and so damning at the same time?

But I am not writing this for pity. I am the one who failed. I am the one who sinned.

Me.

You gave me trust, and you tried to be my partner. You tried to show me truth, to help me understand my heart, you said what you said because you saw things in me that I could not see in myself, and in return for your honesty, I ran. I hid, in fantasy, in wild imaginings where I was better, where I wasn’t weak, where I was wanted and needed and desired, because when you spoke truth to me, I only heard echoes of failure. Rememberings of inadequacy. Repetitions of flaws and all the gathered uselessness that fills my head with plans and my heart with fears.

You spoke truth because you wanted a partner, an ally who would go through life with you and help you become the best you could be, someone who would respect your opinion, honor your contributions, encourage your growth, and inspire your future.

You spoke truth, and you received lies.

You spoke hope, and you received manipulation.

You spoke love, and you received pride.

And pride cannot love, not really. Not the way you long for.

(Not the way I long for either.)

I write this, not believing you will ever read it, because my words are useless. I write this because another offered an opportunity and I sought to turn my regret into a lesson for another, or at least entertainment.

I would cry, but I fear it would seem false.

I act, but I fear it is too late.

I would beg, but my words are what got us here.

I would surrender, but I cannot be trusted.

You want a protector. A guardian, a lover who will go to the strange sounds in the night, who will hold you when you dream of dark things, who will deal with the spiders and carry the boxes. You want a tender of your heart, a keeper of your secrets, a builder of your mind, a partner for your life.

You got something else.

Your,

Predator