I’m sure you don’t care,
And Dad is gonna throw this letter out when he knows it’s from me. The people who I’m living with tell me that parents like you don’t deserve an apology. But you’re my family. And even if you can’t love me, having a family is really important to me. I still love you, if only a little bit in the heart that you ruined.
You’re not getting a confession. I can hardly say it in front of a mirror without smashing it, and Eli tells me he can’t afford any more for me to break. I’ve tried. I’ve tried, and the only reason I can’t say it is because some part inside me still holds the words that you said the day my brother left. “You never speak like that in this house.” It feels like I’m back in my room, listening to you guys argue over who I have to be, and I was sobbing with my forehead pressed against my mirror, trying to look myself in the eyes but I couldn’t because I knew what I was, and I knew that you didn’t want me.
But I’m not here to blame you. I’m here to say that I’m sorry. Everything I’ve done for the past month, trying to get past this, it’s been hard. I’ve felt invisible, like a piece of me was left standing on the front porch waiting for me to come back home. I don’t know who I am. And for that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being the model son that you wanted. I’m sorry for giving you something you didn’t want. I’m sorry for not living up to your standards.
I wake up every day, wanting to run back to you and say that I’m sorry, I guess I don’t know myself after all. I want to say that I like girls. But wanting something like that..? Isn’t that kinda like stabbing myself in the back? I’ve been through too much in the past year, and I wish I could say that the reason I disappeared was because I was searching for who I was on the overgrown footpaths we used to walk on when I was a toddler. Some part of me has to be there, but it has to stay. I can’t put myself back together, I can’t take back the pieces from when everything seemed okay. Wanting to cut my veins open to drain the mistakes from my blood isn’t an option. Maybe you wish it was, but that’s like asking your kid to commit suicide. But I suppose you’re one to do that.
The memory of me might go away forever, or it might not. I won’t ever forget you though. I wouldn’t dare. You raised me. You’re my parents. How can a kid forget the people who made him, even if they don’t want him?
This is me. I probably won’t ever be able to fully accept it, maybe you marked it too deep. Eli’s helping, but that might not be enough. He filled a void, but not the one you left.
Who am I? I feel like I don’t know myself. You called me confused. I guess I am.