I am well, first of all, though I know you probably wish otherwise.
I have a great love life, close friends, plenty of money, a book on its way to being published and a lovely little apartment, located halfway between a library and the graveyard you used to frequent.
I shouldn't miss you.
I shouldn't even think about you.
You stabbed me in the back and left me to bleed, slowly and painfully, though it took me a year to realize you'd done it.
Fuck. I'm pretty sure you even threw a hex my way at some point after the fact, knowingly or not.
I still don't really know why. Everyone says it was jealousy; I suppose I should believe them. Nothing else makes sense--though trust me, I tried my damnedest to find something.
I spent months blaming myself, trying desperately to figure out what I did wrong.
It took me a long time to realize you were pushing me away on purpose, and longer to understand why.
You cried when you first saw me. I wonder, now, if it was out of happiness or anguish.
Did you think I would be someone else?
Someone less than all I am...? Did you think my written avatar was an idealized version of myself, as yours supposedly was?
It's funny. I still found you the same way you described yourself. Beautiful, intelligent, talented...
I thought you were perfect; just in need of some self-love.
I wish you could see yourself the way I do.
I wish you could see your piercing eyes, your sardonic smile.
I wish you could see your curvaceousness, your charm, your natural grace that says 'fuck-you' to standards and forces the onlooker to catch his breath when you walk by.
Hell, you made me pale in comparison more than once, and I'm drop-dead gorgeous.
I still look at your pictures, astonished that something so stupid could have driven us apart.
What else can I say?
I miss you.
You can lie about me all you want, talk all the shit you can think up, indulge morons with agendas who hate me for their own petty reasons...
It cannot turn my heart.
If it were anyone else, I'd be fine.
I don't even miss my own mother.
But you...you were my best friend. My sister.
We built whole worlds together...
There's nothing to heal that wound.
I wanted very badly to hate you. I tried! I truly did.
But no matter how venomous I became, my soul still hurt.
I guess that's how all wicked witches start out, eh...? Hurt.
I don't expect to heal. As always I'll make the pain obey me, force it to do my bidding like anything else. It will serve its purpose.
Sometimes I wish I could see into your heart, see if you still burn, too...
Alas, that's something I'll never know.
More than anything, I just want you to remember me. I sure as hell ain't forgettin' you any time soon.
I carry a piece of malachite with me, tucked away my pendulum in my black bag of tricks. I can't hold it for very long; it's too much for me to bear, most days.
Then again, even thinking about you is too much, though I can't help that.
It murders me.
The person I loved most can't even look at me without subjecting herself to suffering so intense I cannot fathom it.
It was almost enough to make me disfigure myself, if only to ease your misery.
If I knew for a fact it would have helped, I probably would have.
I write this in hopes of relieving my melancholy; I never got to say a proper goodbye.
I know it's early, but...happy birthday.
I still wish you the best, Dorothy.
I'll be fine, as always.