An Open Love Letter To Our Ex

Hey boo,

I know it hasn’t been long since we broke up, but I just wanted to drop you a line and see how you were doing. I see your Facebook pictures and my friends keep showing me tweets of you out there enjoying yourself, and I’m glad to see that you’re happy, but I must be honest:

I kinda miss you.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t be saying this because I have a new boyfriend now, and I had the audacity (see what I did there?) to jump in bed with someone else immediately after our relationship, but–let’s be honest–after eight years, we both knew this relationship was coming to an end.

I’m sure it hurts that I’m now with a guy you hated. I know he called you all kinds of names and said terrible things about you, but when I asked my friends, most of them thought I should hook up with him. Well… not most of them–mostly just my white friends, but I had agreed to do whatever they thought I should do. The only other person they considered was this lady named Hillary, and I thought we’d make a nice couple, but at the last minute, two dudes–one named James Comey and one named Vladimir Putin (I know, his name sounds like a fart)–changed everyone’s minds.

I kinda liked this guy named Bernie, but you know how my friends are. “He’s too old for you,” they said. “He’s too crazy,” they warned. But anyway…

The new guy is kinda nice. I mean, he’s rich, he’s white–like most of the other 43 guys I dated before you (Is that a lot? They were all pretty long relationships, except for William Henry Harrison–I let him hit it and quit it–but that was a long time ago). My white friends seem to like him and…

Oh, Barry, who am I kidding? You know me too well. He’s terrible. First of all, he’s old. I mean old, old. I could’ve fucked Bernie if I knew this was the case! And he takes his hair off every night and keeps it in a gold-plated box with a picture of himself engraved on the lid! Right next to the bed! I can’t even sleep at night because he’s tanned so much, that when we turn off the lights, he glows in the dark! He feels so plasticky, fat and orange, it’s like trying to fuck a microwaved, melted traffic cone!

And he doesn’t know what he’s doing! I spend every night crying and listening to Rosetta Stone tapes trying to learn how to talk dirty in Russian because that’s the only way he can get an erection. I haven’t had an orgasm or even smiled since we split. He keeps trying, but his Vienna sausage-like fingers can’t even find my spot, and every time I tell him he’s not doing it right, he commands me to climax by executive order. Actually, he doesn’t–some guy named Steve Bannon is always in the bedroom telling him what to do to me. I usually just fake it. And by “usually” I mean always.

Oh, baby, how I miss you. I know this is inappropriate, but I can’t help thinking about the good times we spent together. I’m not just talking about how you help me build myself financially after the last guy left me broke, homeless and fighting a bunch of other people I didn’t even have a problem with. I’m not referring to how you helped me get health care, or solved my unemployment problem. I’m talking about our good times.

Remember that time you sang Al Green to me, or that one time we found that Bin Laden guy, fucked him up and dumped him in the ocean? Oooh, I remember how you pimped up to the podium and told everybody what we did. I remember how you commanded a room when you spoke and made me proud that I was with you.

Now that I’m with my new man, I can see that I took so much for granted–like how you spoke in complete, comprehensible sentences. How you actually knew what the fuck I was talking about when I talked. How you didn’t clap back when people talked about you, and you brushed the dirt off your shoulders. How you weren’t petty. How you slept at night instead of trolling people on twitter. How you smiled, instead of pursing your lips like an awaiting anus.

I’m sorry if I didn’t always treat you the way you deserved to be treated. I allowed people to call you out of your name and say racist shit to you, but you know how some of my friends are. Now I see I was wrong for that, and I apologize. You were the best I ever had.

Damn, bae. I think I might cry.

I know we can’t get back together because our time is up. I know they say “you don’t know what you’ve had until it’s gone,” so I just wanted to let you know that I finally realize what I had.

But now you’re gone, and I miss you.

Do me a favor: If we run into each other on the street, or at an event, don’t say anything. Don’t even speak. I don’t know if I can handle it. Just keep walking.

Love Always,



P.S. Tell Michelle I said hello. If she’s not doing anything four years from now, ask her if she’d like to–


Never mind.


About the author

Michael Harriot is a renowned spoken word poet, the host of The Black One podcast and the editor-in-chief of NegusWhoRead. He is perpetually just getting warmed up because he has no chill. He is on Instagram and twitter as @michaelharriot

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