Dear Mr. Lightning-storm-robotic-emotion-manic-stupid-face.
Sorry, scratch that.
When I first met you, you were like a lightning bolt.
Really bright and really powerful.
Hell, I’m attracted to shiny things and you were just enough of
unpredictable and dangerous that I knew I had to be with you.
Like a mosquito to the light post or a deeply religious sinner to the confessional,
I thought I had found a savior.
But, very unlike the electrical storm in you,
You never said much.
I wanted to be a voice for you; thunder to your lighting.
But trying to have a conversation with extremes is exhausting.
No, trying to talk to yourself for a year drives you crazy.
When you were charged like a giant capacitor in the sky,
you slid from positive to negative with relative ease
except around me.
I wasn’t on your emotional wavelength,
a fairly terrible conductor.
We had a kind of charged separation.
I was your buffer;
You had to go through me to converse freely.
When you first met me, you said I was "different".
You polished it into kinder words; unique, unconventional, uncommon.
But when it came down to it you said I was too poetic.
That maybe I was too much of a romantic.
That I was somehow misguided.
That I was too distrusting or over trusting (depending on which sex I was talking too).
Critiques from you, who couldn’t decide which side you were on when it came down how you felt about me.
I’m sorry you forgot three times what loving me meant.
I’m sorry you remembered twice-at my expense.
I’m sorry I took you back the first time.
I’m sorry I was “the problem.”
I’m sorry that I wasn’t worth your time.
I’m sorry that all I ever was to you was interesting.
Your side show freak,
something to show off, make people stand on tiptoe,
“Come see my girlfriend, the most novel thing to know”
But I will never be sorry for being different.
For never choosing a demeanor like a handbag,
for never unzipping my independence,
for never applying submission,
for never treating myself like an accessory.
I will never be sorry for not slipping on normalcy like an outfit.
When you broke up with me-
the second time- I wasn’t surprised because lightning never strikes the same place twice.
Clairvoyance is achieved with insanity,
and insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
Which makes sense because you always said I was crazy-but you liked that about me.
So maybe you were right.
Maybe I am too trusting; perhaps I speak too poetically,
and believe in unconventional love.
But I’d rather be all those things than lightning.
Staying above the ground only to strike down on occasion to leave scars.
All my sorry’s and nonconformity,
P.S. You forgot the rain.