You will never have the capacity to understand what you do to others, I’m so glad I stopped trying to make you. I’m not going to waste any more time on you.


I’m sorry for all the things you think I’ve forgotten. I’m sorry for being seventeen, no for how I was at seventeen; “I don’t know you anymore” remains the worst of our relationship, but it was earned. I’m sorry for saying the furniture you’d stayed up sewing for my dolls house - pregnant with my baby brother, working a full time job and knackered - “didn’t go with the rest of it” and making you cry. I’m sorry for not seeing you often enough, for calling only when my heart is broken, for not calling when it is full. But you are always in it, as its creator, its tutor, and forever its beneficiary.


You are always the most difficult to write about; impossible for me to pick up a pen with my right arm, where your signature will always be inked, and not think of you. I guess I could start with an apology for using you as an excuse for a tattoo, though even amongst the illuminating lyrics and travelling narratives it’ll always be my most prized. The freckles splashed around the fading black lines are evidence that you were already in my skin.


Thank you for being immune to my bullshit and for not being fooled when I’m kidding myself. For yellow roses when I’m down, Pinot Grigio when the sun’s up and snacks of brie before breakfast. Thank you for always remembering; remembering the quotes that make us bury our heads into cushions to stop torturous hysterics, remembering the reasons why I should stay away from him or her, why I should have faith in myself, why I’m often unreasonable. Thank you for that same invaluable reasoning which makes our alcohol-sodden brains decide to forget last night’s behaviour. Let’s do it all over again; what you drinking?


It’s taken me a long time and I’m still not sure I mean it. Perhaps it’s easier to write it down; I know I wouldn’t be able to say it to your face. I couldn’t look into those poisoned blank eyes behind which is the birthplace of such hatred, such hellish years, and form the words. I forgive you.


Words I want to say now

I always say to you ‘You have broken me’ but I never remember to thank you. Thank you for breaking me. For pushing what I am capable of. For showing me that there’s another way to think; one where romance can exist without indignity, where secrets can be kept between two, where I can steal your jacket after a night out and not feel any warmer because you’re cold. For removing ‘cynic’ from my character, and adding ‘sentimental’. For not forcing down that wall around me but for painting it my favourite colour, without ever asking what it was. I've lost jealousy; that author who was published straight out of school, that it-girl, the girl who gets paid to travel the world, none of them have you. I could be happy with you anywhere.

Thank you for being more than what I never realised I needed. For being what I want.