I’m transcribing a series of handwritten letters I wrote, but never sent. Read the previous letter here.
I only chastised myself for an hour about wanting to talk to you today. I don’t go on much anymore – I won’t for you. I thought about sending you a message that said, “I can’t hold on any longer.”
Maybe it’s better I can see the end. I think about you when I hear symphony music, did you know? Why doesn’t anyone stay? I want to stop time and stop life with a pause button, and say, “please, sit with me.” I need more time, I’m not ready. Why don’t you love me? Because it’s me. It’s always me. Who do I complain to? Who do I make things for? What did you do with all my stories? The ones I never told anyone else, what happens to them? Are you so much older you can roll them up with your blunts, and your bad carpet, and move right along? Why couldn’t you stay for me?
Why can’t I stop this – why does this feel manufactured – why can’t I be done with you – you ass. I was a blip. You think of me as a silly little thing.
Maybe if I’d gotten to see M- I would’ve been ok. Instead, I cried on my birthday again. How many more tears and breaks can me take? Not many more, I’ve grown callouses. You gave me callouses. I thought – no that’s enough – I knew it was all fake. I pushed you and manipulated. Just like how I knew to do. And you left like they all did. You hear? I you-all’d you. Consider me just another of your ginger snap tramps, you non-answering, passive aggressive, gap-toothed boy. May you live a life unfulfilled.