Thanks sweetheart. It’s over now, and it’s probably long overdue.

     I found you when we were both in our glory days, me 19, you 23. I never loved a boy before, but you taught me how because you’ve done this all before. I learned how it felt to be swept off my feet, to have my heart broken, to be desired by the only guy I ever had eyes for. And here I am, almost 3 years later falling apart on our living room floor while you’re sleeping like a baby. 
     Now, you say, something’s changed. You used to find any excuse touch me, now I’m constantly in your way of view of the television. You used to ask me to bathe with you, now you tell me to leave the shower on after I’m finished. You used to rip my clothes off me every chance you get, now you say “why eat a cheeseburger if I’m not hungry?” You say it isn’t me, it’s you. That you just don’t have a drive anymore. But you watch porn. You masturbate. You’re the first to show the cute guy from the mall your approval but tell me you don’t say anything about me because I hear it from so many others. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with others. I want you.
     2012 has been the year I’ve fought for what I’ve loved. I’ve hit bottom, I’ve changed, I’ve sacrificed who I am to have the life I want. And in the midst, I’ve never been more alone. My entire family is gone, and I have been left to start my own. To them, this is the guy that transformed me into the brother, the uncle, the son that I am. If I was to call them and tell them everything now, I’d just be a disappointment. I left my family to be treated like an ugly, needy, desperate boy. I’m beginning to regret that decision.
     I know he knows how troubled I am. He’s waiting for me to leave him. He’s not man enough to say, “I don’t want you anymore. You’re not good enough for me. I want a younger, cuter boy, you know, how you used to be, that I can touch, and suck, and kiss, and fuck, anytime I want. And he’ll drive a car too. I’ll tell him I’ll always take care of him, get really close to his family and treat them like my own, have you move in with me, and then when you get comfortable, retreat to something better again.” I almost wish he’d say that. It would be the words that kill me, but they would be everything that mattered.
     I’m no longer a lion, but he’s still a giraffe. Still tall, bleak, passive, and his head so far in the clouds he doesn’t give a shit. I feel like a beaten house cat, timid, and wounds that have gone without attention for so long, they probably will never heal. But in the end, it would be nice if he wanted them to heal. No. If he did something for them to heal. But between you and me, I think my pain I feel in my heart and the tears I’m gathering in my eyes don’t phase him anymore than my body phases his libido. I’m not the tan, 16-year old boys in their underwear on instagram that he gawks at as his daily routine, and I can accept that. I know I should just end it, because I could be with someone just as, if not more, physically attractive than him more than he could, but I’m not that kind of guy. I’m not an idiot and I know he doesn’t want me anymore. Sure he loves me, it’s easy to say. But he’s not the one sitting up at 2am looking at pictures of us crying, and praying to God literally to keep us together. 
     I want the strength to know I am better than all of this. I also want him to miraculously want me the same way I want him.