I am a writer.
I write; it's what I do.

If you think that leaving me hindered any of my thinking and writing ability, you were absolutely right. My mind staggered off into the deep end, and everything I put down on paper or computer came out wrong and not right. I became frustrated at not being able to put words down into meaning and feelings and emotion. My words came out jagged and cheap, like some naïve novelist. Your face clouded my mind like a bad fog and I let it stay there.

Now that you've left for good, I can write again. My words flow onto the paper like water gushing from a broken dam. My imagination comes back harder than ever, which is also a little disappointing because I'm busy with life at the moment and sometimes things don't impact me like they used to.

But I have to keep going. Go, keep walking, keep going, don't stop. If you stop, sometimes you don't feel like starting back up again. So I'm walking on and on away from your figure. I don't feel guilty doing so, but I feel like I've lost something valuable that I'll never get back. In reality, isn't that what you are?

But you made your decision, and I accepted it. How could I not? My anger was pumping through my veins like hot blood, itching at my skin and clenching my heart. I ate your lies, and saw you for what you really are.

You are a deceiver.

You made me to believe you wanted me for what I was, for who I was and what I did. When you said yourself that I was some attempt to redeem your humanity for being such a cruel bitch, one can only stop and hope the sway of the world will come to a standstill, and even then, one hopes it will not come at all.

I don't understand why you did the things you did. I don't know why you treated me like an expendable toy, and not a person with feelings and a heart that was falling apart quickly at the seems. I still don't see how you can go through people like treats in a candy shop: one for everyday of the week. I can't begin to comprehend why you treat people like robots for your own selfish purpose, for something you think will make you a saint.

It won't.

You treated me like a pawn, a fool, an idiotic tool to use because you thought I needed "a helping hand."

I don't appreciate the sentiment.

I don't understand how I could have overlooked the possibility, thought I was wary even then. 4 ½ years ago now, isn't it? Why didn't I see through your poison? Your lies were right there, in plain view, in the form of kisses and whispers and secrets and holding hands with other people who you did not claim your love for. Did you feel the need to satisfy them as well?

Why didn't I take heed and leave? Why didn't I realize you were some coquettish girl with a light heart and no room for a weight to hold you down? I understand now, though.

Darling, you say you're bad at lies. I admit, you're atrocious. But how easy it was to follow this lie that had no words but actions to make up for hidden motive and seemingly well-disposed actions.

I am free of you.
You no longer hold me down, and letting go of you was easy.

Please do not look me in the eye, or even at the fabric of my shoes. I wish nothing to do with you, you self-indulgent callous creature.

Good-bye.