Dear You,

        What You said, it...well, it didn't bother me. I mean, it did, but not too much. Not so much that I'd, I dunno...stop talking to You, or anything. It stung. You were just trying to relate and, no worries, I get that. But the way You tried, the way You said it...I don't think You even noticed. Not even a passing thought to what You were really saying to me. You know all my vulnerabilities of the time and place - I'd just tried to open up a little, like Paula said. But it was just thrown back into my face instead, and now whenever I'm with You, my insecurities that fester inside surface all at once in a giant upheaval of emotion. I hate You. I love You. You're awful. You're wonderful. Stay away. Never go. You're killing me, and You don't even realize it. Because no matter what happens or what I do, I still lose. And I hate to lose more than I hate You for doing This to me - whatever the hell "This" is.
        You're not the enemy, or the ally, or anything, really. You're just You. Time is my enemy. Time was always my enemy. It hates me - loathes me. Can't get enough of my suffering. It catechizes me weekly; daily; hourly. Sometimes it makes me feel like jumping in front of a bus - no doubt, the ultimate goal. But, as I said before, I hate to lose. Time will just have to get its jollies elsewhere.
        Back to You - always back to You - and how completely insufferable You are. Did I say insufferable? I meant irreplaceable. Or perhaps loathsome. Dynamic? Beautiful. Wonderful. Hateful. Loveable.
        Stop it. I wish You hadn't come into my life. But what, then, would I be feeling? I used to be afraid of that word. Feeling; emotion. Before I met You, anyway. It really was the little things. Joking, laughing, sharing battle wounds and life stories. I was afraid of those things, though I could never tell you why. And now I'm not, and I have enough sense to know You're the reason. So is that a blessing? A curse? Maybe neither. Maybe it's like You. It just Is.
        They say there's a reason for everything. Remind me who "they" are? There's no cosmic order to the universe. What happens happens at random. That's why people spend their whole lives fawning over the things they can never have. And I would never tell You this, but that's a great fear of mine - that I'll never get over This. No one else will ever be good enough. The notion is ridiculous, I know, but who's to say how this will end if not God Himself? On a whim, perhaps. There is no Ultimate Plan. More scapegoats.
        I'm spiteful, I realize. Don't blame me. You don't know what This is like. You have Your own pains I would never understand. So do I.
        And I'd say more, but there just aren't enough words. Just this: I love You so much, I hate You to death.

                                                                                          Sincerely,
                                                                                                Me