"Presently, I'm into blonde men. Because of you. Suddenly a good sense of humor is so cherishable. I look for poise in men now; reddish hues in stubble; boyish laughs with husky voices, smile lines, polite gestures, kind words, curiosity, subtly, a prominent sense of style. A delicate curve of an eyebrow; vintage ties and Armani suits. Now strong jawlines draw my eye like spotting a yellow canary randomly in the backdrop; flowing, curtained hair that frames the face. Lean bodies and everted navels are suddenly attractive. Beautiful things all have a touch of melancholy now. I can't even look at flowers anymore. The smell of blossoms depresses me. I cover mirrors now. I've tossed out the art of you, the photographs; cut them, ripped them, burned them. I've abandoned old ways and accounts; blocked you.
But you're still there, somehow. Not the authentic you but the "you" I believed you were, the "you" you showed to me for quite some time. That vision of you is trapped somewhere in the back of my mind, in my memories, like a tumor. Like a virus. Like a cancer. Perhaps a bullet would remove it. Kind and swift. And I can already imagine the crimson speckles that scatter across the piles of pages, writings inspired by you, love letters, that you never knew about and, by God, I hope you never do. I hope you never know you inspired such feelings in me for the act you played. My old hopes smell of dread and lavender, like dying dreams and the sweat of lust and illusions and my eyes burn some nights the way a passing sand storm would after staring out too long at a mirage.
I see you in everything still. And yes, I do hate you for it. And myself. I hate you for denying me happiness by making everyone incomparable to you. I hate you for giving me no one to miss or yearn for but an illusion, a man who didn't even exist."
You made me to be no longer content with only finding a kind soul. You made me want someone who is living art as well. You've cursed me to look eternally for someone I'll never find outside a fictional word. You've tortured me to live only in my own private reality, the reality of my dreams...and I'm sure now, what I possess only in my mind, this version of you that is lodged there, is the realest happiness I shall ever find. I hate you. I hate you in a million ways; I love you a million ways more.
I still think of who you're not really, and I hate myself for it.
“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass