I hate everything about you. When you speak, I hate the words that come out of your mouth. When you're silent, I hate the shape of your silences - the way you never know how to voice what's on your mind. I hate your smallness, and that you seem to grow smaller instead of larger - I despise how you never manage to gain any weight, as if anything weighty can never come to rest inside you. I loathe the shape of your lips, the cut of your hair, the way you walk with a shuffle, how your hands can't seem to stay out of your pockets - how every scarf around your neck seems to find its way into your mouth. The way you chew on wet wool in winter sickens me, the way you sweat in summer is absolutely disgusting. All seasons do nothing for you, there is no way to flatter a boy who knows nothing of flattery, who knows no way to rise above the circumstances of his life.I hate that she left you, and that you were too good for leaving. How you stayed, and stayed, and if he hadn't kicked you out for college - how you would have stayed, still. You could have taken roots here, in your room, existed as nothing more than the content of four walls, a ceiling and a floor. You have contented yourself to be as empty as the failed fishtank that still resides in your childhood room, and deep down, you aspire to nothing because aspirations are admissions that there may be some hope. And getting your hopes up? That's for men that can stand tall, and you are short. Tiny. Insignificant. She left you behind like yesterday's newspaper - everything already read, used up, of no relevance to the present day. Hell, I would leave you too, if I were able.
Sometimes I picture you at your funeral - wearing a dark, unfamiliar suit you never owned in life. I picture how empty the room would be, and how the priest would use only the most generic of words to eulogize your sorry life. Maybe I killed you, finally- and that was my chance at freedom. Maybe this is nothing but a shell, and you are somewhere looking down, smiling for once in your sorry life - an accidental angel learning at last to fly.
Sincerely,
Michael
My therapist told me I should write a letter to myself, talking about what I don't like about me, then to burn it. To try and let go of all that, to move on and be some sort of better person...
So I wrote it all down, lit up a cig and took the lighter to the paper in the process.
Didn't make me feel any different, 'cept I bunt my thumb a little.
It kinda hurt.
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Comments: 10
This is a good post, Laura, keep it up!