I have this letter clutched in my hand. This isn’t a safe place anymore like it used to be and you don’t understand.
It isn’t attacks and rebukes. It’s my thoughts poured out at each passing moment; they aren’t pointed nukes.
You come to read my thoughts like a psychic paid to spill all of her truths, then you resent her and hate her for giving all those thoughts to you.
I have to write a letter because I know you won’t pick up if I call. I had to write this letter if there was ever hope at all.
While it drifts through hands and seeks its way, I’m sick to my stomach hoping you’ll at least read it…I hope it will give you something to say.
More than one word. I’m sick of those one words. Hurt isn’t a feeling only one person can feel and I’m allowed to feel like dirt.
You came in my home and rifled through the drawers. Yet I’m wrong and I’m mean. I don’t like this game you play anymore.