F*ck you. F*ck your independence, your yearn for freedom. Your all-aware sense of self. F*ck your liberties, your rights, and your feminism. F*ck every single thing you stand for, for the sole reason of having your say by my side. All you ever wanted to accomplish was supported by my misguided sense of your grand. Which is absolutely not to say I “allowed” you to have your own opinion; I’m not a caveman, you so desperately wanted to perceive me as. I share most of your opinions, if not all, many of which I wasn’t even in touch with until you came along. But fuck you for thinking you are better than me. You are not grand, you are selfish. Your love for me was the equivalent of mine for my cat; true, but self-indulgent.
F*ck you for thinking my aspirations are inferior to yours. For thinking your wanderlust is superior to my art-lust. F*ck you for wanting to meet new people halfway across the world, but not having the least bit of interest to meet my closest friends. For demanding I be a full-time employee in your life, and not having the decency to be a part-time employee in mine.
F*ck you for expecting me to move to, for me, uncharted territories with you, but considered a once-in-a-month visit to my parents a burden. A visit to people who cherish my life more than you can even comprehend, let alone match, who are to never see me again once I follow you into the unknown. Fuck your understanding of compromise. F*ck your idea of your compromise being a weakness, but mine being the only proof of love. F*ck you for wanting to save the world, but not us. For your compassion for refugees, but none for me. For even thinking I disregard your feelings only because I wanted you to acknowledge mine.
F*ck you for gathering that my wish to have the newest flagship model of a smartphone means I’m a lesser being. That my passion for the finest makes me an uncompassionate person. That my interest in modern technology makes me unaware of real global issues. F*ck you for, after spending two years and infinite conversations with me, thinking I cherish money over soul.
And, finally, f*ck you for not letting me go all the times I begged you to. For always coming back, saying you “forgive my impulses”, rather than realizing that you couldn’t sand being alone, starting over, starting fresh.
F*ck you for being in my f*cking dreams, night in and night out. Your beautiful face, silky hair, the smell of my childhood on your neck… F*ck you.