Dear Diary,
I solemnly swear this is the day I leave James for good. I know…I know…my promises to quit him have yielded naught. Diary, you must understand I want to leave him. My soul is screaming out for us to un-couple, my heart is straining against the dam of heartache he has made me endure and the voices in my head (don’t even get me started on those) are yelling at me to quit being a spineless fool.

I have tried, diary, I really have. Sometimes (on those good days) I wake up elated and the day goes by without my mind wandering to the corner to which I have shoved him into. I ignore his calls with haughtiness and cackle in victory that his name resides in the past tense. On other days his ghost haunts my dreamscape, seeping past steel walls and rubbing my soul raw. I wake up craving his essence, filled with the temptation to seek him and fall at his feet begging him to take me back. I am filled with longing and disgust at myself for wanting a man that threatens my mortality.

I almost want to ask him if he has bewitched me. I want to know if he keeps on him a voodoo doll adorning locks of my curly raven hair to which he whispers odes and commands. Perhaps he will confess to keeping my photograph in a calabash in front of a shrine he has built to me ensnaring my soul. Could he be lacing my morning cup of chai with a love potion?
The man has a hold of me that I cannot begin fathom. You see diary, he was my first. The first man I ever truly loved. The first man I ever gave myself wholly to, unbarred and uncensored. The first man to see the depths of my soul, glimpse my vulnerabilities and dance with my demons. He was my first cut.
The first years of our love story were bliss and kind to us until they were not. I am not sure when it started or perhaps I am too afraid to admit it to you diary. Admitting means that I acknowledge that the symphony our hearts sung was no longer in harmony. The trouble with love is that it can make your heart believe a lie, uncaring of how blind it makes you to the truth. His words started to leach out untruths, each lie entwining with the other until the serpents devoured each other. With each tale he no longer shone, he was a milky cloudy marble that held no value. He was scum, drowning me in filth. He was no longer my sun.
Sadly my heart has been deaf to my warnings, choosing to run to his summons like children to the Pied Piper. My body has been Judas, willingly yielding to the fire of passion he sets ablaze with his touch. I write this after having tried to date other men but so far they have left a bland and bitter taste in my mouth. James has broken me into a marionette a puppeteer doesn’t deem worthy of fixing. Why do it anyway? Love is not worth the pain. I don’t want to hear it to call my name.
Please diary,