Invisible

I could open these with “dear friend” like Charlie did in Perks, but you know exactly who I am, who you are, and what you are to me, and an attempt at anonymity would be pathetic. Again, unlike our favorite wallflower, I will not thank you for anything, because you’re a selfish prick and I hate you. Our entire town knows what I did, and I have you to blame, hence the letter.

You can pretend like I didn’t, but I still made you cum and I still loved you, and we were always just a little more than friends. Not to get sentimental--or maybe, to get sentimental, I haven’t really figured that out yet--but the first time we fucked, you were on top and completely silent until I made that comment and you let out a single note of incredibly sexy laughter. Remember that? Well, I do.

Truth is, Lana, you bitch, I miss you. I miss hot boxing your car and listening to Radiohead remixes and The Kinks. I miss your mismatched features. I miss the freckles on your nose and the cruelty in your laugh. I miss kissing the cigarette burns your ex boyfriend left on your chest in the ninth grade.

And the thing I miss the most is that you’re probably insisting, while no one is around, and while nobody cares, that you don’t miss me too, even though everyone knows you do. You stubborn little shit.

All that; all that “I miss you” shit is beside the point. The point is that I bloodied up my hands for you, stole for you, and ultimately lived my shit life for you before you played victim and threw me under the bus.

You fucked me up, Lana, just like you said you would.