How Much Longer Could This Apology Get Before I Call It A Novel?

I've showered you
with bullshit since
the moment we got
together and I'm
so sorry.

I'm insecure as
hell. I always
compare myself
to her.

To make you feel
better, I'll be
dishonest.

I'll complain
about how fat I
am, and tell you
you're beautiful
(because you ARE)
even when you
weigh just barely
more than me.

Which, I'm
certain, just
makes you feel
like I'm lying
to you.

Which I'm not.
You fucking glow.
You radiate beauty
with every step
you take,
every breath you
make, and time
you break
down into tears.

It's like drops
of moonlight
cascading down
your cheeks.
It's fucking
poetry to see
someone so strong,
hurt.

And it makes me
want to hold you
and tell you that
I'm so sorry for
anything bad that's
ever happened to
you, sweetie. And

I just want
you to know,
I love you.

You,
yes you,
make me so
happy I could
die tomorrow and
I'd be fine with it
as long as I could
hold you one last
time and tell
you goodbye;
to have a
perfect
life.

Just as perfect
as the way you
are in my eyes.

And all the bullshit
I've showered you
with was a gift
you gave to me
unknowingly.

It took the weight
of the world off my
shoulders. It let
me exhale the last
of him, every scar,
the depression,
every time I stuck
two fingers down
my throat.

You know, I used to
be so gross that I
would make myself
vomit.

You tore the mirror
I built for myself
off the wall and
told me I was the
fairest one of all
and I believed you.
I still do (in my
own way).

I mean, I asked you
-begged you, even-
to tell me if I
was getting fat.

I had just been
denying it for so
long. I had been
ignoring what I
could physically
feel.

I was growing,
expanding,
outwards. The
blubber on my
body widened
every day. I
knew it was
happening.

I
knew
it.

I wasn't shocked
and I wasn't
horrified when
you told me the
truth. It just...

a thousand memories
of the boy I loved
before you
flooded into my head
from when he said I
should lose weight
and I fell apart.

It felt like it was
all happening again
and it was my fault
and that was why
you didn't want
to have sex
with me.

I was so fat
you hardly wanted
to touch me.

You're just too
nice to tell me
the real
reason.

And I just wanted
to go into my
room for a while,
cry, and cover my
body with blankets
so no one would
see how ugly I
was.

I wanted to forget.
But the mirror you
had once broken,
grew back and
there was my old
reflection staring
back at me.

Fat.
Ugly.
Gross.
Huge.
Pitiful.
Unwanted.
Unworthy.
Unlovable.
Disgusting.

And then the image
of the girl you
once loved popped
right back into
my skull.

She was the opposite
of me. Jealousy
raged in my head
and fueled the
fire even further.

And then, of course,
you had to text me
at that moment.

At the moment when I
was garbage and that
you didn't love me and
no one could love me
and it felt like you
were mocking me with
pretending you cared
if a fat girl like
me cut herself.

I didn't cut.
But I fucking wanted
to, so badly.

Instead of letting
myself take a blade
to my skin, I poured
all that onto you.

I wasn't actually mad
at you. I just needed
everything to stop. I needed
my heart to stop beating,
my fat cells to stop
multiplying and dividing,
my pain to stop eating me
alive, my everything to
STOP.

And I am so sorry I
texted you those awful
things. I am just so
sorry. It hurts me worse
to know I hurt you, than
to know I could never be
as good as Leigh-Ann.

I am so sorry.
I love you more
than anything,
Brittany.

It's not you.
It's never you.
It's always me to
be the one to burn
us apart and I need
to tell you that I
love you before I
fall asleep.
Well, if I
ever go to
sleep.

Well, now that you
have reached the end
of my poem, I'm
just going to let
you know, once
again, that
you are the only
girl or man I'll ever
want to be with.

I want to wake up
and fall asleep to
the sound of your
heartbeat,
morning and night for
the rest of my life.

Just say the word, and
I'll always be yours.
And Bubbler, I already
am.

The end.