Dear First

I thought you were long forgotten, but of course you're not. The memory of you is like a drug, the tears are my high. Every time I feel sad, your face surfaces from the depths of my subconscious, calling out to me, tempting me to join it in the fathoms of depression. And who can refuse your face? I sure as hell couldn't.

I've tried to use this sadness as inspiration for music, but nothing I create can capture the depth of the feelings I had for you. I think it's best to wallow in it for a bit. At least it's easier than pretending I don't care, that I never did. You never did.

It would be easier if it was just the one time. If you were the only one who didn't love me back. What if the second had, or even the third. Then it would have been easier. But of course they didn't. Who would? I wouldn't have.

It's tough. I have to change who I am, be more obvious, more flamboyant, just to convey the possibility that I could be interested in you. But then I'm no longer myself. I'm a different person than I was before, and I hate myself like that. But what's a boy to do? There isn't a right or wrong answer, and I can't blame you for not liking someone you would never have been interested in the first place. But I have to blame someone. Someone has to be responsible for causing me this pain, and it can't be me. I would never be able to live with myself if it was my own fault.

Dear First, it would be so much easier if I could hate you.