Found a visual dictionary, and I wanted this much: photos and outlines of all you gave me, and this I would learn (with such critical trivia as the names of holes you pull your laces through in shoes, et al.), and then I could finish the letter detailing, to you, your gifts to me.
You woke me up, baby. Also, you also broke me. I have denied the latter for courtesy's sake; didn't think you wanted to know that I've cried rivers that bear your name, nor the extent to which I hurt, physically, as a result of knowing you.
Baby. I refuse to villify you, and I hope you know to appreciate that. Know that I see you as more than the man who hurt me - for also, you taught me, held me, took me to dinner, and remain a valuable presence in my life. Listen, I might want to, but I'm not going to hurt you, not the way you hurt me, not if I can help it, no.
Listen, though, honey, I'd deceive you not to utter the truth: that in the fruit you gave me, there were razors
placed, I believe
by circumstance, a middleman
(and thanks, for you took such careful care when I began to bleed)
and this I will remember too as part of what you've given me.
You were my first, and frankly, my body still wants you, but listen, I lied and those lies lent themselves to confidence, the evillest kind, and now, now I feel responsible for every woman you hurt or will hurt, that I didn't warn you first about our kind.
This, by the way, is thank you. You have meant more and hurt more than ever I should have let you. And thank you. Time will tell if you're scum as they say, but I'm gonna care enough now to set it straight as I see it. And "thank" and "you," frankly, are just the two best words I can think of now.

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