Dear Amy

Dear Amy
I'm drunk. And alone. And listening to Amy Winehouse.

This is very sad.

I am the worst kind of romantic. Because I am willing to lose my morals, integrity, and dignity in the name of love. Love!

Don't ever tell me that I am too smart for love because that makes no sense. Love is not related to the intellect therefore it cannot be justified by the intellect.

The heart wants what it wants.

Love is vile. Love hates you.

Do not give James your heart unless you are sure you want him to have it forever. Keep it safe within the heat of your skin. Don't let it break under the strain of your love for someone who will never understand you.

In love, I don't believe in being aloof. I believe in being pathetic! Would you like to read the drunk poetry I email to Damian? Yes, you would. So here it is:

I met a Brooklyn boy. He got me drunk on red wine, took my fragile hand, and dragged me back to his yellow-lit Opium den, where he held me tight. Where I thought my heart might asphyxiate under the strain of its heavy agony. I prayed to the gods for your ghost to come through his window and steal me away. So we could run like wild horses over the hills into black tar night. Back to my apartment. Back to white-stained red sheets. Back to your loving arms. Back to your lips and dark hair, feeling your body slide against mine, knowing that we
were in mad love. Too mad. In those moments, I could close my eyes and see you still, illuminated in dazzling white light. I felt as though my heart would melt under the heat of that love.
But instead, I ran alone. So alone.


So this is who I have been relegated too. Please judge me. I deserve it.

Heartbreak suits me. I feel too deeply.

Why was I born so beautiful yet so unwanted?

I love you so much. I have given you a piece of my soul. Please never destroy it.

I do love you.

Canadian dreams,
Margaret Regret