Dear my love,

                I used to hate you. I cringed at the idea of you. You used to make me sick. But then everything else struck me, and I realized why should I hate anything about you? You were always there, yet I never even considered your existence. I used you, just as everyone else does. Yet when I used you, I never felt bad. I was emotionless towards you. I used you every single day of my existence, and yet you were still there. Why would you let me use you? No matter if people loved you, they just began using you more. And yet, I still use you. I take you for granted. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ever using you. I’m sorry that I still am using you at this very second. I used to think you were worthless. I used to think that you were just an idea, an option of escape. And now, it is currently 4:03 in the morning, and I am sitting among the mere darkness of my room in sorrow of what I have done to you. Such darkness appears to fill my insides by the pity I feel for using something as exquisite as you.

                Yet now I realize how much you mean to me. I won’t ask for forgiveness, for I know I will always use you. I’ve been used too. But the difference between us is the fact that you will always be used. You are not trash nor are you worthless, but now I want you to know that I love you. I have fallen madly in love with the existence of you. But I am so sorry for taking you for granted. You just have no idea how sorry I am. I can’t look at you without crumbling inside. I can’t hear people talk about you without internally crying. Everything about you makes my heart cringe because I know I will never be good enough for you. Honestly, I don’t care if other people think I am or not because all I want is to be good enough for you, and now I’ve formed this insane idea that you will come back to me no matter if I use you. So, I am obsessed with seeing you every day and hearing other people talk about your presence. Yet that means I am obsessed with the sorrow I feel towards you. Why can I not be obsessed with the joy you give me? I guess I can’t choose my obsessions, but you could never understand how the idea of using you rips my insides to pieces. But if I were to live without you, the obsession that I desire to radiate such joy is not humanly possible. Can’t you see that now I’ve become you? But you don’t care. Now that I am you, you could never love me because you will never truly love yourself. I know I should get over this sorrow, but it’s just so hard getting over something that you are so consumed with.

                So I’m sorry that people abuse you. I’m sorry that I remain so dependent on you. But today I was asked, “What makes you the writer you are today?” And I thought of you and not anyone else. So, I’m sorry that I’m using you. But I just wanted to keep you alive because if I don’t use you, you are dead to me. And you could never be such a thing. Although you are Writing, I love you. And no one made me write besides writing itself. And I know that many people like to use you too, but I just want you to know that I think even if you are confined to such a combination of letters, you, Writing, are beyond words. And oh, how I adore you.

Sincerely,

Madison