Pen to paper;
I have a complaint, and that’s how we do things here.
It lets us know we’re British,
With our tea and cricket, and politely worded letters of complaint,
Kept neat and tidy, impressively Victorian.
Scoured so clean of emotion you can almost smell the disinfectant,
Each word kept safely in check on the lines.
I’ll leave it to you to read what’s between them.
So, to start this letter:
Hey you, Dear sir,
To whom it may concern?
It was easier knowing what to call you when I knew what you were to me.
I should choose a complaint to lead off with,
But there are so many clamouring for my attention,
A cacophony of malcontent, all jostling to be committed to ink.
Perhaps the way you sauntered into my life,
And made a place for yourself that no one else will ever fill.
Maybe that you convinced me you’d stay,
Or, as if that wasn’t bad enough,
You left, and made out like I cared.
I didn’t, you know.
I just wanted to hurt you, for thinking that I did.
For acting like it was me who made a mess of all this.
And when you asked me one day
“All those many moons ago, did you ever really love me?”
I replied
Yes
Yes, to cut you deeper
But you had someone new to heal the wounds,
And then I realised that maybe I never really wounded you at all.
Perhaps I was the game, not you
And it turns out I’m the one with cuts and wounds,
You played me all the while I thought I was playing you.
So you win, right?
I think that’s what hurts the most.
You said I only loved you because
I never needed you.
You said I only loved you
To prove I was in control.
As if you could ever hope to know me.
I don’t even know myself
Why it had to be you.
It’s not like you earned anything from me.
You gave and kept on giving,
But it never equalled what you took.
An appropriate farewell;
Yours faithfully, sincerely, or truly?
I was never really any until you didn’t want me to be...
Dear you,
Why did you make me love you
When you never once loved me?