A letter to you.
It's been a long time.
Sometimes, I still think about you. And all the wrong you did to me.
Sometimes, I still think about every single good time we had, and wonder if it ever really out weighed the bad.
Sometimes the bad times are almost non existent while the good ones sit there right at the front of my mind, playing like a bad, cheesy movie.
But just clips of all the highlights.
It never shows any of the real story.
Sometimes I forget that you isolated me from my friends and family, convinced me to quit a job I loved to sit at home while you spent our money on things you shouldnt and saw people you knew I wouldnt like.
You did drugs, and stole from the people I love most- not even including the invoice of what you owe ME, and in the end tried to tell me it was all in my head.
My family was lying to me.
They made it up.
Because how could you POSSIBLY be at fault.
You were never wrong. You never faltered.
Me seeing the truth and calling you out on tearing me down was never apart of the plan.
And when I tried to pull away, and just cut it off. You fought it. With every fiber of your being.
I remember, distinctly, one day I got a call from the county jail and I knew who it was. Without even picking it up, I knew.
That was the day I changed my number. So you could never call me again. A few months later. You were released and you decided to try and talk to me on facebook.
"Would have been nice if i could have heard it from her."
Would have been nice...
It would have been nice to not sit up every night in the bed WE shared, wondering where you were, if you were going to come home.
It would have been nice to not worry about where i was going to live because you spent all of my hard earned money on meth and cocaine and whatever other substance you could get your hands on.
It would have been NICE to not find a new pipe in your pocket, ever single time i went to do YOUR laundry.
It would have been nice to not live in the freezing cold garage of your parents home because you couldnt stop those grimey hands from stealing from even your own blood.
It would have been nice to not have my car used and abused and wrecked, when. I didnt even get the chance to drive it.
So many things could have been nice.
Its been years now.
Ive grown. Ive changed.
A lot of people call me strong. I just think im bitter.
Because of you i dont know if i will ever believe in love again. Because everytime it becomes an idea in my head, i shut down. Because it has to be another trap.
Sure they wont do all the things you did.
But theyll do something.
Its been years, and sometimes i still find myself missing the good times.
But the more and more i think about it. The more and more im reminded that there weren't any. Just grand delusions to sit back and reminisce on in the middle of the night.
I can still remember the first time we met. Ill probably never forget it, because it was the last night of what was my life.
You changed me.
You crumbled me up and watched me suffer.
And even worse?
You didnt care. You just wanted me to tell you i was done, so you could try to talk me out of it. One more time. And you probably could have. Because im a sucker for someone that says they can change for the better... no matter how long id already stuck around to see how untrue that really was.
I'm doing better now. Mostly. Ive picked up the pieces you left behind and started putting it all back together. Its taking some time, but im doing it.
A lot of the damage you did cant be fixed without some expensive repair work. But I'll get it done. Eventually.
I still miss you.
But only in the middle of the night.
About this poem
A few years ago. I managed to get out of an emotionally abusive relationship with a massive narcissist. At the time i had to idea what to do aside from try to stick around and work it out, so that things might get better. I lost a lot. And because of him, i ended up costing my family a lot as well. I cant change the past. And im still healing from it. I just hope im learning too.
Discuss this Eleanor B. Meadows poem with the community:
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"A letter to you" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 3 Dec. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/112270/a-letter-to-you>.