Dear Amanda,

Dear Amanda,

You told me your story, so here's a way for you to start understanding mine. If I ever had the guts, this is the letter I would send to the boy who dominates my poetry world.






Dear Boy,
Do you remember the conversation we once had about how life would be so simple; you would have her for the emotions and feelings and me for the fun? It was me who suggested the idea. I’m now starting to regret that. I can only just about start to explain how I got myself into this spider’s web.

 

I dug myself a hole 11months ago and it being 5metres deep wasn’t enough was it? I had to make it 10metres deep, 15, then 20 and then so deep that I couldn’t see out of the top anymore.  The darkness surrounded me, with the sun once in a while peeping in but I was fully aware of the fact the walls surrounding could collapse at any point.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. No it wasn’t and you and both I know it. I knew it wasn’t simple and it wasn’t ever going to be but as you kindly reminded me we’re “complicated” I realised how much I hated that fact.

 

Yours words were heroin to a drug addict; the more you opened your mouth the more I became addicted.

 

They should be celebrating; they were kind of, in a way, sort of, right? I still want to prove them wrong.

 

I was like a loose screw in a tap. The more we talked and the more I loosened up the more freely your words flowed. Going from little comments and sarcastic remarks in texts to conversations about how you think I’d have rather been with you than my ex and how you’d rather be with me if it possible; it hit me something HAD changed.

 

We weren’t children without responsibilities anymore. We weren’t playing Barbies and I certainly wasn’t anywhere as perfect they made Barbie.

 

The words rolled off your tongue so easily and I found you having the same effect on me. I gave up playing hard to get and forgot my issues with how imperfect I felt.  Our words were everything and nothing all in one go.

 

The conversations with those around me continued to go round in circles but their harsh words reminded me the walls surrounding me weren’t fall proof and could collapse at any point. Their words weren’t always true. “He likes you, you’re more than sex to him” but I felt like your own personal Barbie doll.

 

Your touch never lingers or punishes me; the 200 miles in-between us ensures that but your words stick like bees to honey.

 

11 months has passed since I started digging my hole but as time goes on I’m starting to realise barbie dolls get old, boring and battered then replaced and bees move onto a new honey cone once emptying the last.

 

Actions speak louder than words. Prove your words otherwise you’re going to become the Ken at the bottom of the toy chest that I always remember so fondly and smile when I look at but don’t play with anymore.



Love
    Bex

XXX