Dear Mx.

by Holley Cotham

I refuse to admit I miss you, but it is weird now. After all of those late nights talking, I am missing something. I told you more than I should have. You made me feel so heard. People guard themselves for so long that sometimes they allow someone to slip in. This foreign perspective gives an outside view of their internal workings. You made me feel so seen. They may try to use this as a mirror to see their flaws and clarify themselves further, to explain who or why they are, and to connect on a deeper level. Sometimes, the one they let in only distorts that blurry image further. You made me feel so lost. Sometimes, those exceptions sneak in with a shovel, digging up whatever they glimpse, encouraging openness only to use what they have learned for an advantage. I found the shovel you used that first night. The one you toiled away with for hours, breaking down my walls. You made me. I found it, and I can't throw it away because, at its base, it is evidence of a connection. It proves that what I thought was more was nothing to you. You destroyed me. 

I don't miss you, but your shovel is still here and is beginning to rot.