By the time I’ve stopped trying to hate you, I’ve started to hate myself. And, it’s certainly not the first time and I’m still hoping that it’s the last, but this hurt, this sadness, this deep ache that tightens itself around my neck, threatens to choke the remaining life out of me and I’m scared my reckless mind just might let it. Because this bitterness is dipping into my blood and it slithers into my soul and I want to scream the sickness out because the crying has stopping working. All of my backup plans are crumbling to dust around me and my memories dance around my head like haunted specters. I’m done. I’m done with this anger and resentment towards people who are too busy to care. Too vain to reach out. They do not deserve my rage when they cannot be bothered to love me if I am not there to remind them I exist. I do exist and I am worthy of being loved. So I refuse to sit here and play the martyr, still waiting for a fictional apology. I’m not sorry. I am finished. The End.