I had planned to compile an e-Book of poems I wrote about you while we were dating and bundle them up with the title 'Rebound Lines'. But some things have come to light about you, about us, and I realize now that what happened between us wasn't love at all. What happened was a disaster waiting to happen, and then it did - two trains colliding on the same track at upwards of 170 km/h, and the carnage just unthinkable. But it happened so quickly and quietly all at once - systematic - and somehow I lived through the entire nightmare but there parts of it I when I wished I'd died. Even just writing this now makes me think you're not worth the time. I don't want to take one more opportunity to glorify you when you didn't deserve so much as a whisper from me. I'm not as riled up as I used to be, but how dare you take what you didn't rightfully own away from me. How dare you have meddled in affairs which didn't concern you, but you found ways to make about you anyhow. How dare you so much as suggest, let alone insinuate with such steaming pomposity that I needed you. That I could be better with you AND ONLY you. That I was broken, unworthy, and so achingly incomplete without you. You disgusting, hideous, tiny-dicked insecure shell of a man. I never should have engaged with the likes of you. It makes sense that we met at a party for fake people. You are my regret, my shameful moment of weakness - you represent everything I left behind, and so eagerly engulfed my final bridges to in flames. And those hours - god, what transpired in those hours we spent talking and sharing and peeling back the layers of ourselves to our buried treasures. As always I somehow pulled too far back, exposed flesh too tender, and you pounced. Claws in. Teeth in. You devoured me greedily and senselessly as I held my bleeding body open. How fucking dare you. We called them 'the Lost Hours' because we didn't know where the time went. Now I know they were the Lost Hours because they were the spaces in time when I lost myself - what I had of myself - the pieces, jagged, scattered, each one brilliant and beautiful. I'd spent nearly a decade cultivating whatever I could save from my life before I lost it. I was a masterpiece in-progress and you dared to lift the curtain. Muddle with my things. Spill paint, and break glass, and then you had the nerve to scold me when you cut yourself on my edges. Get out. I never want to see you here again. You will never read my work or buy my books or try to champion my cause as a way to stroke your own ego. You will not undermine my life's unique tribulation any more than you so disrespectfully have already. You will not attempt to lay claim to my demise, past or otherwise, nor declare yourself responsible for the motivation which powered my betterments. NO, you sad son of a bitch. You just got bored and curious. You went poking around in corners that were labelled clearly to keep you out. You didn't care. You made a living out of lying and feeling sorry for yourself, so you thought you'd have nothing to lose by trying to take what's mine, to make you better. There is a special place in hell on earth for the type of man that you are. The deceitful, controlling, raging kind. The kind of men who gratuitously suck all the sunshine out of women like me - the brighter women, the fighter women, the ones you worship behind closed doors and slander and deface out on the free streets - and it is never enough. No matter what we do. We hand you the world world. Our money. Our time. Our bodies. An endless flow of love from bottomless wells of forgiveness and compassion. How do we do it? It comes at a cost. When the well runs out and it seems like you've bled us completely dry, we beat down on ourselves, blame ourselves for the ways you selfishly and relentlessly hurt us, and then we tap a source of even more love, by draining it out of ourselves. Men like you are everywhere. You're the liars who always like to say you've changed. You're the smooth talkers who know exactly how to alter the tone of your voice to make us think you're on our side, but in reality, you're sending us to war. Involuntarily. All in the name of love, the failure of love. I managed to pick those pieces up. Clean up the mess you made. I'm making up for the time I lost when I was with you even though I'll never get that time back. I'm grateful every day that I made it out alive. Truly. Physically, emotionally, I dodged a fucking massacre by deciding I had had enough. I still wish I did it sooner, I do. But thankfully, what I did manage to save of myself was enough. I realized I had so much more in my life than you. I never needed you. In fact, I never needed any man. And those so-called broken pieces you were foolish enough to cut yourself with were merely fragments, jewellery, adorning the sacred spaces I inhabit on this earth as keepsakes of the wars I fought - and won. With myself. With you. And with every other enemy and critic who carried themselves in the likes of you whom I proved wrong, one by one: that not only did I not need them, but I was the best of myself without them, far, far away from them. So if you know what's good, put down this page. Close my book and go off on your merry way. There is no place for you here. No welcome mat, no extra bedrooms... instead there is an uprising of women like myself who collectively won't take any more of your shit. Go home, little boy.