A Love Letter.

Oh fuck does it hurt.

What a pitiful, disgusting mass of idiocy you feel like. A self-absorbed little bastard. A pathetic, silly little know-it-all with a big fucking mouth and a shriveled, tiny black heart. You hate yourself and you hate all the time you wasted on the bullshit that you thought was number one.
And the more you think, the more your self-assured conclusions of the situation begin to die. And eventually, you wish you too could die with it.

She called so many times. She just wanted to talk because she was lonely. She was tired and sad and rejected by her family, and all she wanted to do was talk. To you. And you did talk, for a while - trying to answer her honestly concerned questions about school and the family during the commercial breaks of the after school television.

You're disgusting.

But its too fucking late now - Shes dying. And your hindsight is breaking your heart because you've finally realised how much of an ass you were for breaking hers, so many times, because you were too busy watching TV.

You go to visit. You introduce her to the man you want to marry and tell her about the things you want to do, but its no use, she doesnt remember you. So you sit and watch her, trying to say the things that are supposed to count, but the scoreboard left with her memory and youre left to write posts about it.

Left to write pretentious posts about our mediocre renditions of love, for mediocre people, while she sits alone and dies.

Oh fuck, does it hurt.