Dear someone who used to be mine,
I had no idea about what to call you, so I called you this. Even though I question myself, if you were ever mine, but okay.
Firstly, how are you? Well, I hope. I want you to be well. I can’t be a prick, wishing for you to suffer the same as I did, and so genuinely, I wish you wellness and health.
Wondering why I’m writing to you, out of the blues? Well, you gave me a visit. No physically, but in my dreams. Yesterday night. I have no idea how, and such a complicated dream it was, but it wide opened the wounds I had bee trying to cover since so long. Not all to failure. I did succeed a number of times.
Yes, I “did”. Now, again, I’m vulnerable. With all the pains and wounds open for people to endeavor, and ask me about. Ask me about how long have I been vulnerable for. Ask me about how stupid I am to think you were there for me. And I will stand there, out of answers, and pain, and say nothing, but have their laughter and taunts, till they leave me, to have me crying. I’m just a shadow of the person I used to be, and I hope, you know.
I was doing so good for the first time ever since you left me. I was happy. I was laughing. I was living. I was loving. And then, this dream destroyed the world I had created after my previous world left. You.
I’m not saying it was your fault. You have no control over my dreams. But you know, this dream has me again on ground zero. I’m again afraid of people. Afraid of my own friends. I’m on the verge of a breakdown as I write this. I’ve lost my confidence yet again. I am questioning myself. My personality, the way I look. Everything. I’m questioning myself that if you left me wounded, because my personality wasn’t good enough. I’m questioning myself if you left me wounded, because I am not good looking. I’m questioning myself if you left me wounded, because I was too scared to let you go. I’m questioning myself if you left me wounded, because I was a bad influence. I’m questioning myself if you left me wounded, because I have anxiety and become too emotional when it comes to love.
I may never get those answers. And believe me, I don’t even expect it from you.
All I have now, again, are anxiety, depression, under confidence, doubts and, a broken hope, that you’d love me, again.
I don’t hope that you feel this. I don’t hope that you go through what I’m going through. I don’t hope that your world leaves you. I don’t hope that you become like me. Miserable. I don’t hope that you feel the pain I feel, but I do hope, that you know, I exist, even with the pain you gave me.
Someone who used to be yours.