When we started talking, it was, for you, out of poetry and, for me, out of rebellion. I wanted to break the school’s strict No Dating policy. Who was going to tell me what I could and could not do with my spare time? I picked you because you were the raddest guy in school. I was suffering from some pretty crazy insomnia back then, my days and nights practically reversed. School had just ended, so you were staying up nights, too. I loved the nights we spent IMing about movies and books, you actually had pretty good taste, which I will admit surprised me. I loved that you were intelligent enough to discuss philosophy and politics, if that is what you can call our stupid opinions on how the world should work. Knowing that you were there to tell secrets to, sharing myself in a way I hadn’t ever before.

I was still considered the new kid, and I was glad. I did not want to be one of you. I was still in the mindset that the East Coast kicks the ass of the rest of America. I spent that summer being pissed at my parents for dragging me to no man’s land. I longed for the hustle and bustle of city life, not the lame amounts of nothingness that I seemed to get in Joplin, Missouri. You were something new and different. You didn’t know me, so I could be whoever I wanted to be with you.

When, after a few weeks of IMing the night away, you told me you had started dating Tiffany, I was not happy. I did not like Tiffany, and we were already practically dating. Finally telling you that I liked you was not the nerve wrecking ordeal I made you think it was; it was no big deal; I mostly wanted someone to call my boyfriend. I mostly wanted you to know that I was in control of my life. You said I was so complex and interesting. Having a multi-dimensional personality is not sexy or interesting, it’s a disease. You should have ran away, stupid boy… but I digress. I liked being a mystery, and you ate it up. I may have misled you a bit about my sexual past. When we started dating, it was all fireworks and passion. You would write me sappy poetry, your attempt at showing your poetic, tragic and sensitive side. I thought you were full of crap. And when you first told me you loved me, I knew I had you exactly where I wanted you. The first time we kissed was my very first kiss, but I knew you’d expect me to the powerful woman I’d led you to believe I was. So, when you began lingering mere centimeters from my lips, looking me in the eyes with that look I knew so well from cheesy romantic comedies, I decided to take control. I pushed you up against the wall and kissed you, hard, pushing my tongue into your mouth, and exploring you like Lewis and Clark. When I finished, I backed off and said, “Don’t be such a pussy next time.” You had stars in your eyes; you loved it. We walked out that Hot Topic victorious, both of us having achieved what we wanted. We followed our siblings to Macy’s where they were shopping, and we were making out. We followed them in the dressing room where I snuck you into one of the rooms, locking the door behind you, and kissing you passionately. I jumped up into your arms, locking my legs around your waist, and curling my fingers into your hair. You never would have known I had just had my first kiss an hour before. I did, though.

Later that summer, at your best friend’s house, we made out, passionately on his bed and my sister got mad at me, slapping me across the face. I understood her anger, but didn’t care. It was my summer to be bad. I was being the person I thought would have the most fun and I was having a good time doing it. We all went downstairs to watch a movie, and we curled up together on the couch. You would periodically nibble my ear or trace a pattern on my thigh, after a while I couldn’t handle it anymore. I stood up and said I was going to go make everyone some Ramen Noodles and asked you to get the bowl down. When we turned the corner into the kitchen, we were all hurried hands, strained breathing and teenaged hormones. We stood there, for what seemed like ever, kissing, my face slightly chaffing from your light stubble, which was your sexiest feature. I had never felt anything like it before.

I thought I was infinite that summer. I, kissing a boy that preached about breaking society’s rules and challenging The Man, thought I was being poetic and ironic. We both thought we were artists and poets and writers. We thought we were deep and analytical; we felt triumphant. We were children, babies, knowing nothing of life. We loved the thrill of sneaking around, not telling our parents or the other kids in the school. We loved that only our circle of friends knew. I was thrilled with my life, but by August, I was getting a little bored. There had to be more than the mall on the weekends. And I will admit that I really wasn’t ready for the step you wanted to take in our relationship; I was fifteen and stupid, pretending to be a woman.

I hung on for a couple more months. It was nice having someone around that told me I was beautiful and wrote me poetry. Nevertheless, I was tired of the secrecy and, honestly a little tired of you. When I said, “I think we should take a break,” I had no idea you would take it that hard. You usually acted like an emotionally stable person; I thought you could handle a break up. It was hard hearing that you had injured your hand when, after getting off the phone with me, you punched that wood pile. It was harder knowing you told your mother, your mother, about us. The worst of all, however, was the string of bimbos, yes bimbos, that you paraded around our Christian school to get back at me. Did you forget that your little sister and I were best friends? Did you forget that she’s a talker? Did you think she wouldn’t tell me about the raunchy sex you both had? It didn’t matter, though, because I was over you.

Despite the last paragraph, I write this letter, not to tell you I am over you, or that you are a terrible person, but to say I am sorry for telling you lies and then breaking your heart. I guess you really meant it when you said, “Forever,” and it was I that wasn’t serious. I guess you were serious about getting married, and it was I that was playing you. Mostly, however, I am sorry that I asked your sister to dare me to kiss you that night we were all playing Truth or Dare a year after our break up. I am sorry I put way too much “umph” behind it, and I am sorry I uttered those same words from our first kiss back in the mall that one July day, “Don’t be such a pussy next time.”