Dear B,

It’s sickly and horrific, that cologne you used to wear. I hated it at fifteen, at twenty-one it brings on a sweat. I haven’t seen you for two years but every now and then, sweeping past me in café doorways, I inhale a smell that conjures up an uneasy memory. Not that the memory of you is one I’d like to forget, just the memory of a fifteen year old girl whose sadness became her life. You could never understand my temper, my rage - didn’t believe in such an illness, “you don’t need those kind of pills.” You denied me my salvation, said you didn’t believe in being sad. You never said it but you were sure I revelled in my moods.

After we broke up and I fell for another guy you tried to wheedle your way back in, knowing he was just as incapable of providing me with a cure. I, however, was never so naive to believe that such things came in the guise of lovers. Your telephone calls, though sweet, would never bring me back - not to you, not to the self you thought I could be. Honey, that was me.

It’s bitter-sweet, tragic but not unique. I’m wise without recognition, always loving, always moving, drifting between what’s real and the unknown. You wouldn’t recognise me now, perhaps I’d somehow lose my allure. No longer a puzzle to be solved. Acceptance was the cure.