Dear overly passionate potential paramour,

 

Darling your hands are not my healer

Let’s start by making one thing clear- I’m not calling you darling to be synonymous with lover, no, I’m calling you darling to be just a little bit sweeter

And darling you can not heal me

It’s not that you aren’t lovely

It’s that you are

But you’re not him

And darling, you’ll never be him

 

And I can guarantee that your hands will hack apart

At the slightest touch of my beautifully shattered heart

You can not fix what’s already been torn to shreds

You can’t begin to sew up all my loose threads

Darling I don’t need you to save me

Because a savior requires a worship that I’ll never grant to you

Because darling you aren’t who I address my prayers to

 

I don’t want the endless hours of your time

Darling you require payment for friendship, the most nonchalant of crime

You don’t need to know how my mind works

I’ll never grant you the privilege of knowing my quirks

Darling, it’s not that I hate you

It’s that I hate the idea of needing someone like you

 

And darling, I’d love nothing more than to heal

But I refuse to be a pawn on your chessboard, contributing to your big ego ideal

I will find shelter within the person that holds my name

And I will love until there is no more space left to blame

So darling, please, walk yourself away from the girl with the broken heart

Because I don’t want to be healed by your uncontrollably vicious tongue

 

Signed,

The Girl who ran