Dear You,
This is a love letter.
Which tickles me
right between the ribs,
considering
I was brainwashed
into believing
you were the problem.
I knew everything
about you
except
you.
How difficult
you were.
How impossible.
How much you took.
How much you hurt
her.
How relieved
she was
when you finally left.
Branches are bare
here I am,
writing you
a love letter.
I saw it coming
from the beginning.
We were sitting at lunch
when I told her,
holler at me
when y’all break up.
I meant it.
Then came the gifts.
Lunch—
five-course
French-Asian fusion,
delivered like
a naked specimen
of a human
had ridden my lunch order over
bareback
on a white horse.
Roses.
Pink ones.
Dark pink.
My favorite color.
Letters.
Packages.
Surprises.
Anything
that could travel
from her hands
to mine
without her
having to be free.
apparently,
she heard my boundary
as a challenge.
Somewhere between
no
and
look what she sent me,
I let pursuit
start looking
like proof.
The first time
she asked me
to leave the room
so she could answer
your FaceTime
and prove
she was alone,
I did.
Stood somewhere
outside the frame,
quiet enough
not to exist.
She called that
protecting me.
Looking back,
that was the first time
she erased me.
I didn’t know
I was watching her practice.
I watched her
erase you
and mistook
the empty space
for somewhere
she was making room
for me.
The house
hadn’t even finished
metabolizing
your relationship
before I
was assigned
closet space.
The outline
of your jewelry box
was probably still
on the dresser.
The dresser
she said
I could now occupy.
I found
a pair of your panties
caught
behind one of the drawers.
I tucked them
in my back pocket.
Figured you dropped them
on your very confident exit.
Your fingerprints
were probably still
on the silverware
from last week’s dinner.
Lipstick
still on a glass
in the dishwasher.
That’s how close
I was to you.
Not close enough
to know you.
Close enough
to touch
what you had just touched.
I imagined
you left
confident.
Certain.
Done.
That’s how
she told it.
You took everything
that made the house
a home.
Maybe that’s why
the next time around
she made sure
the receipts
remembered her name.
We sat together
in the middle of Our House
picking dining room tables
that seated ten to twelve,
running our hands
over fabric swatches,
choosing chairs,
two thrones
for either end
for formal hosting.
I always sat beside her.
Let her mother
have the other throne.
Truth is,
that was just my excuse
to be closer to her.
There was no getting
close enough to her.
Funny.
By the time I left,
I owned about a tenth
of the furniture
I had before I met her.
I watched that woman
build a trapdoor
under your side of the bed,
then climbed into
the same bed
and picked my side.
That is embarrassing.
I owe you an apology
for the arrogance.
That’s what it was.
Arrogance.
To watch somebody
break another woman’s heart
with me in her pocket
and think
the problem
was the woman
whose heart was breaking.
I thought maybe
you didn’t understand her.
Maybe you didn’t
love her right.
Maybe y’all
had already been over
long before I got there.
All the things
a woman tells herself
when she needs the villain
to be anybody
but the person
she’s falling in love with.
She would call me.
Come see me.
Miss me
from inside your house.
I took that
as evidence
of how much
she loved me.
That sentence
sounds different now.
Doesn’t it?
I thought
if she wanted me
while she had you,
then I must have been
something extraordinary.
Never stopped
to consider
you probably thought
you were extraordinary too.
That’s the part
I owe you.
Not her.
Me.
Woman to woman,
I knew better.
Badu knew better.
Look what she’s doing
to you.
Why would I want that?
I heard the song.
Still somehow
missed the point.
I should’ve done
the same thing for you.
I didn’t.
Instead,
I listened to the stories.
How every woman before me
had been dismissed.
How she was done.
How they weren’t.
How devastated they were
to lose her.
That little smirk
when she told it.
Like heartbreak
was a Yelp review.
Five stars.
Would devastate again.
I believed her.
Thought that meant
she must’ve been
one hell of a catch.
Took me a while
to do the math.
If every woman
who loves you
leaves worse
than she came,
at what point
do you stop bragging?
At what point
do you wonder
if it’s not us?
It’s you.
I’ve worked
in a warehouse now.
Damaged goods
come off
the same truck.
Same manufacturer.
Same warehouse.
Same shelf.
Sometimes
the difference
between full price
and clearance
is somebody
finally noticed the flaw.
I spent
an embarrassing amount of time
trying to remember
what she actually
added to my life.
Not who she knew.
Not where we went.
Not the label
on the bag.
What did I have
after her
that I couldn’t have had
before her?
She taught me
to buy designer
off the rack.
I’ll give her that.
Walk into the store.
Pay full price.
Before her,
I’d find the same thing
secondhand,
mix the knockoff
with the real,
cut the tag out
if it scratched my neck.
Still looked good.
Still me.
I came
with a whole life.
Had done some things.
Been some places.
Owned some things.
Knew how
to tie my own shoes.
Somehow
left
with less.
Maybe that’s why
all those women
in her stories
were devastated.
Maybe devastation
wasn’t proof
of how difficult
she was to lose.
Maybe it was proof
of how much
they lost
loving her.
After enough stories
I finally asked,
So nobody
ever broke your heart?
Nobody you wanted back?
Nobody you missed
after you decided
they had to go?
There was one.
One woman
who cheated.
One woman
she took back.
Just long enough
to leave her.
Nobody after her
ever really
had a chance.
Sometimes I wonder
if the only woman
she ever wanted back
became the woman
the rest of us
were auditioning
to replace.
I wasn’t worried.
Why would I be?
I never thought
we would end.
I’m sure
you didn’t either.
I never studied
those stories
like warnings.
Never counted
how many women
had stood
where I was standing.
Until one of her old stories
started sounding
like my Tuesday.
Until I realized
I wasn’t hearing
history anymore.
I was hearing
instructions.
Eventually
I became you.
Same address.
That’s the devastation.
Same house.
Same rooms.
Same woman.
Somebody different
being told
this time
was different.
She tried to convince me
threesomes were sexy.
Maybe they were.
Maybe I just
didn’t understand
the math.
One woman.
Plus one woman.
Plus one woman.
Plus one woman.
Always
one
more.
I thought
she wanted more
with me.
Maybe she just
always wanted more.
Another body.
Another possibility.
Another woman
who hadn’t disappointed her yet.
The grass
wasn’t greener.
She just
hadn’t walked on it yet.
I don’t know
when wanting
became replacing.
When replacing
became routine.
When the front door
became a revolving one.
You out.
Me in.
Me out.
Somebody—
I don’t even know
her name—
in.
Sometimes
I wonder
who’s lying beside her now
under the floral
wood-frame headboard
we picked out together.
Whose things
are filling
those oversized nightstands
I chose
because both of us
had too much stuff
we absolutely needed
within arm’s reach.
Whose hand
is reaching
into my drawer.
Whose toothbrush
is beside the sink.
Whose fingerprints
are covering mine
on the silverware.
Maybe she’ll find
something of mine
behind the dresser.
Tuck it
in her back pocket.
Assume
I left confidently.
Maybe she’s sitting
at our dining room table
listening to a story
about me.
Maybe I’m devastated
in this version.
Maybe she hears that
and thinks,
damn,
she must really
be one hell of a catch.
Girl.
That’s when
I finally understood.
I wasn’t listening
to her past.
I was standing
in line.
I am sorry.
Truly.
For every time
I mistook your warning
for jealousy.
For every time
your pain
made me feel chosen.
For believing
what she did to you
was proof
of what she felt for me.
That was stupid.
Cruel, too.
I can admit that now.
Sometimes
karma doesn’t come
looking like punishment.
Sometimes
she looks exactly
like the woman you wanted.
Sometimes
she loves you
exactly
the way
you watched her
love somebody else.
