Dear Goomba,

I am writing this praying to whatever god chooses to hear me if any that by the end of this I’ll be over you. We both know that’s not true, at least me and the ghost of you that lives in my head, my heart, and all around this empty bedroom. I wish these words, these thoughts, and the only real emotions I was ever real about reach you, but I know they won’t. I know I’ll still wake up tomorrow all the same, with my heart ripped out by myself while your voice plays in that hollow voice recording I shouldn’t have kept, just like all the photos. It really is the true meaning of bittersweet how my heart skips a beat when I see your photo still sleepy with exhaustion the bitter comes in when I remember how bad I fucked us. I remember the day you left, while I still clung to you to stay, to love me instead of her, but you loved, love, her.

So I went crazy, I broke the wall, I broke your chair, and I destroyed myself. I seduced you after you left and you cheated on her with me for 7 months, 7 wonderous months. Until at the end despite 5 years of you loving me and 7 months of you telling me those sweet nothings to keep me under your thumb, I sent her all the texts, voice recordings, and photos, all of it. If I couldn’t have you she couldn’t either. If I gave my heart to you, my soul to you, she couldn’t have you. I relished in her anguish and your agony because it meant I wasn’t alone in my utter despair. Yet here we are.. a month and you still chose her and blame me. I threw away a marriage, a future for you and god damn.. I would do it again for 7 more months. I would do it again even for one more hour.

You always have and always will be my sweetest addiction. I’m a like to that of a heroin addict watching another shoot up with their needle, and their drug. I know you like heroin are bad for me. You like heroin kill me ever so sweetly and I just want to forget how bad you are, how bad you hurt just for a little bit of that high, just a taste. You treated me like shit and I’m supposed to be better off now, but why does being better off hurt so bad? Normally I’d ask you but you aren’t here, and the ghost of you just exists. It doesn’t speak like you or move like you and when I beg it to be real, it never is. So I sit here with the smell of you faint and an empty echo of your voice telling me how beautiful I am or how much you love me, but it’s never real. You told me what I did was unforgivable, and what you did to me was  supposed to be the same but it never will be. I will never not love you, I will never not be slowly dying without you. I forgive you. Please forgive me, or let me go. I just want to be free of you and your ghost.