A Romantic Love Letter to Delma Jennifer Flores on Account of the Fact that I Bought Her Nothing For Valentine’s Day

Dear Jennifer,

Let me begin this letter by apologizing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not buying you a Valentine’s Day gift. I’m sorry for not taking you out to an Argentinian steakhouse and for not getting you a heart-shaped box filled with assorted chocolates and for not buying you a giant teddy bear holding a dozen roses. I know you don’t care about that, but still, I'm sorry.

It’s your fault though. I didn’t buy you anything because I love you. I hate you. Exactly.

The feelings have been there for a while, brewing in my stomach, churning with the gastric acids and half-digested slice of pepperoni pizza I had for lunch, swimming around in there like a concussed puffer fish. Inflating, deflating, inflating, deflating. I tried to shrug it off as gas early on in the relationship, but we both know we wouldn’t have made it this far if there wasn’t something at least resembling love between us.

I am trapped, sinking further and further into the molasses of love, the sinking quicksand pit of romance pulling me down, down, down into love-blivion.

The fact that you don’t care about Valentine’s day makes me love you more, which in turn, makes me hate you even more because I don’t want to love you, but it’s too late.

I’ve reached the point of no return. Our relationship is like a game of paddle ball. No matter how hard you hit me, I’ll always come back. That’s not an invitation to partake in domestic abuse, but like I said, at this point, if you decide to smack me around, there’s not much I can do to stop it. I’m not going anywhere.

I used to be independent. If a girlfriend became upset because I was late for dinner, I’d say “I’M MY OWN MAN” and storm off.

I can’t do that anymore.

Partly because, yes, the whole love thing.

But also partly because you hold the code to my self-destruct sequence.

07-14-28-11.

You know what to say to turn me into a giddy little piglet, squealing in delight at the fact that you enjoyed the story I wrote.

You also know what to say to turn me into a pile of raw bacon, your words slicing into my flesh, cutting off my appendages and ripping out my lower intestine only so you can tie it into an overhand knot and hastily stuff it back into my torso.

You hold that power.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

I push you away. I forget to wash the dishes. I say I’m never in the mood for Thai. I stay out till 2AM, getting drunk off whiskey and IPAs.

Yet no matter how upset I make you, you’re still here. And I’m still here. You haven’t activated my self-destruct sequence.

I’m hoping it’s because I hold the code to yours too.

11-02-04-05.

Whatever the reason, thank you.

Let's form a truce. A peace treaty to end this cold war of the heart.

I won't obliterate your psyche if you won't demolish my fragile ego.

Because that's what it's all about, right? It's not about red wine or sonnets or holding hands while eating cotton candy and walking through the park at dusk.

It's about trust.

I trust that you love me.

I do.

Because there's not much I can do if you don't.