Last letter

To the boy who'll die at thirty five,

You have left me to die and I wanted to forgive you. All you needed to do was apologize. "I hate you," I told you. And you tried to come clean. I needed to tell you I hate you so that the hate I feel for you would go away and consume itself. I wanted to tell you I hate you until I don't mean it anymore.

(It was funny how you think you know me and act as if you really do. I don't want to be near you.)

An apology, an apology, that was all I needed. I wanted to let go of the hatred. I wanted to be liberated. And until now you're such a dick. "I still hate you," I said as you got out of the car. And my thoughts all night were shame and regret for trying to think that you would say the s word and shame and regret for being ready to say, "Don't worry, it's okay." I guess some people really don't change.

But I do. And this is my last letter to you.

Once yours,

The girl you left gasping for air