Dear Emjie,

If at any time this year I have doubted myself or my ability to succeed, it has been your doing.

You who looked at me with that cynical, condescension that made me feel like a cockroach.

You who sneered at me with those beady, beady eyes and made me want to punch you.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t punch you.

Because you’re older.

Wiser?

And so feeble that a punch might’ve killed you, and then you really would have ruined my life.

I would have been a felon, been put in prison for years or for ever, all because of your horrible bedside manner.

The only faith you showed in me was the faith that I would fail.

The only motivation you inspired was that I might prove you wrong.

One night I had a dream about you.

Yes, Gee-emme, you even invaded my dreams.

My dreams that I normally love so dearly.

My sleep that I normally cherish.

You even took that.

In my dream, my nightmare, you were enormous—you were the size of a university campus.

Every professor was you.

Every assignment was you.

Every shaded window looking out on the coulees was you.

And while I realise this may sound like a love poem, I assure you:

It.

Is.

Not.

You were everything bad on a feverish rampage to destroy everything good.

I shriveled and died in the presence of you, which was every presence.

My words choked in my mouth because I could not speak to you.

You stole my voice.

And I hated you.

When I woke up and saw it was just a dream,

I still hated you.

But I like this poem—these words that I’ve written to you. Because of you.

They prove you have not beaten me.

And you will not beat me.

So I forgive you.

All my best,

cpsf

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