Dear Mx. II

by Holley Cotham

Your shovel is still here, rotting, but it's all too slow for my liking. I tried to remove it the other day—to pry it up from the ground you tore up that February. But I can't do it. The ground won't release it. The wooden handle leaves jagged splinters in my hands. I keep trying to pull anyway. 

Each day, I return and pull a little more. Some days, it shifts, if only a little bit. On other days, it is like an anchor: completely immovable, an unwavering gravestone. I treat this site as such, a place of mourning. But I don't mourn our connection anymore. There was never a connection to begin with. I was never in love with you. I was in love with the beautiful parts of me that you reflected. You truly were nothing more than a mirror. You were never yourself with me. I don't even know if you have a sense of self. You are everyone else, anyone that you need to be in the moment. But what frustrates me the most is how fast I fell for that reflection. It was beautiful, so caring and kind. I loved the reflection. Truly and purely. You tricked me into loving myself. And I fucking hate you for that because, even knowing it was a reflection I fell for, I still can't seem to love myself. It's not your fault that I can't love myself, but I can't forgive you for showing me that I had once. For showing me that I am worthy of love. So, while I still resent you for your lack of care throughout those months, the one thing I will never be able to forgive you for is something that you can't even fix. 

Your shovel is still here; it's rotting and, with it, rots any chance of my forgiveness.