We were both seven, and new to primary school. You and I became fast friends. I soon began to think the world of you. You were brave, and smart, and kind.
I had no idea what love meant, but I think I probably thought it had something to do with wanting to spend the rest of my life with someone. So, naturally, I decided that I was going to marry you someday.
I told my mother, because I was seven; I was sentenced to hell immediately, even though I was but seven. Then came the rest of it. See, Jesus is apparently alright with violence as long as the weapon used is a heavy, hardcover Bible. Evidently, Jesus draws the line at gay girls. It was some years before I learnt that Jesus did not speak to my mother directly.
However, for that night, I thought the best thing to do was bleach myself with tears, a swathe of scripture verses, and a long, long prayer. More than happiness, I wanted to go to heaven.
I am not sure exactly when it was, but soon after, my affection turned into pinches. The pinches into bruises. The love I had for you hurt me. I guess I wanted it to hurt you too. I was horrible, and mean, and small. If the gay had not sent me to hell, this probably did. I once even put glue in your hair knowing how precious it was to you. (You did have really good hair.)
It probably is too late to say I am sorry. It has, after all, been almost two decades. Nonetheless, I am hoping that this apology into the void somehow makes its way back to you. I had, very ironically, been a huge dick.
