Letter by Chirin Barikan

Posted on March 13, 2012 by


To whom it no longer concerns:


I’d probably make a better prostitute than I do a writer, and I blame you for that. Was the pain you caused my heart not enough to satisfy you, so you aimed at my mind? You have wronged me in so many ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible. Yet, this broken heart and mind filled a box with cheesy love poems addressed to you.


Now all you do is judge me. You overlook your flaws and highlight mine. It’s like my pain fills you with satisfaction. One would have thought that shattering my whole being into pieces would be enough, but one was wrong. This is not in my head; I know you’re after me. You hate my success, and you love my failure. Let me be, for the sake of our golden times. Give me the chance to return to who I used to be. Quit playing with my mind.


I used to be a writer, but after what you did to me, I lost my talent. Words used to flow out of my mind like water out of a bottle, but now, they have run cold and turned into ice. I know they’re still in there; letters that form words, which then form sentences. But I have given up hope of finding them.


I remember a time of announcing hatred toward the ones that cared.

I remember a time of misery that had to involve acting.

I remember a time of complete sadness.

I remember a time of sickness.

I remember a time when my smiles hurt so much I considered them a disease

I remember a time when I hated the direction that fate and destiny were leading me to.


The time has now come, where my sentences make no sense, my words are scrambled; my thoughts are long dead and buried. I am here in writing to inform of your victory. You have not failed to corrupt me. But I have not given up yet. I’m merely going to let you enjoy your win for a little while longer.


But then, because of that, because of that tiny ounce of strength I will have saved up, everything will not be a blur anymore. Those times of misery will be the best lessons I’ve ever gotten.


I will then face a time where I can finally laugh and cry normally the way I want to, whenever I feel like it. I will then face a time where fate will bring me to a world where I belong, not where I thought I did; a world with people who have been suffering just as much as I have. A world I have so much in common with, so different from my past life, so different from you.

That world will be a world of toughness, except that unlike my past life, it will be accepting.


But until then, I’m putting down my pen, I am divorcing the words, and I’m ripping up the papers.

I’d rather be a prostitute than write and let you enjoy my failure. I will strip you of that pleasure. I will strip myself of what you meant to me and redefine my life.



Posted in: Letter