I’m breaking up with you, Milk.

I thought that I could trust you, but now I see you for your true colors. You’re not the same. Something changed the day I stepped foot in China. You changed, Milk; you changed. I went overseas and suddenly you were completely different. Maybe you want another chance, but I’m done. I’m finished. Your actions as of late just proved to me that you never loved me the same way that I loved you. This is the final straw. We’re over.

As I lay there Monday, struggling to cling to life, I thought about you. I thought about all those fond memories we had had, and all those that I thought we would have. Through the good and the bad, I had stuck with you and you with me. I had stood up for you when others attacked you, and even defied my own family to defend your name—my own blood, my own cousins. But after all those thoughts came and went, the question still remained: why, Milk, after all these years, had you suddenly chosen to do this to me? Why now? What happened? Was there someone else? I just didn’t understand.

Some claimed food poisoning, others tried to tell me it was lactose intolerance, but I know what it really was: a broken heart.

I still can’t believe that I’d had the audacity to think that being in China would bring us closer together... No, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. And try as you might, I’m still alive. Still surviving. Still here to tell you that I’m done. I’m through with you, Milk.

I look back and all I see are warnings—cautionary signals that I was too young and foolish to care about. I remember when I was a teenager, and they tried to tell me that you were too hormonal to be healthy for me; they said that you were going to be a problem down the road. At the time, I told myself that it was just part of growing up. After all, I was hormonal too. Nobody “understood” either of us, but we still had each other. You and me, Milk, through thick and thin—through whole and skim.

How naïve.

I want you out of my life. Please don’t try to contact me, I won’t answer. I don’t think we can be friends. I already deleted you from my phone and untagged the pictures of us on Facebook. Oh, and all the CDs you left in my car? I threw them out. I still can’t believe that I used to bring you on road trips with me. But try to understand, I just don’t want the reminders. It’s still too soon to think about you without feeling sick.

I feel as if I’m rambling. All these raw emotions I have are just bursting from the seams. I can’t even hold a solid train of thought. You know me, Milk, and I’ve never been one with words. Remember all those poems we used to share with each other? Maybe a haiku can help you understand what I’m feeling:

Yummy China cow.

I’d drink you up, but you’re not

Refrigerated.

Zai jian,

Jhw