I’ve waited to get something in the mail from you for over two years.

A postcard.
A letter.
A package.

I checked the mail everyday with a hiccup caught in my throat looking for something unusual.

But nothing came and eventually I stopped looking.

And as it always does
When you least expect it
An envelope appeared
Addressed to me using only my middle name.  

A name you used when you wanted to pretend I was someone else.  A name I pretended to be even though it made me uncomfortable.  

I shouldn’t have opened it.

But mistakenly I had confessed one evening that I have no sense of control when it comes to you.  

So my gut twisted and I sat down to open it.

As the paper revealed itself I remembered just how cruel you are.  The paper was a poem I had written for you.  A poem I spent months writing.  A poem I printed and used to wrap a gift I had made for you.  I distinctly remember giving you this gift and reading you the poem to you in a tent by the ocean.  While I read you looked at me as if you loved me, the closest you’d ever been to telling me.
I dropped the envelope to the floor.  Why would you send this to me?

Because you are cruel.
Because when it comes to hurting me you can’t help yourself.
Because you didn’t put a return address.
Because I don’t know where you live anymore.