iv.

This is a letter to those friends,

The ones I lost, the ones that stayed
The ones that I took and left
The ones I misunderstood without regret.

It was.

It just was.

And I can't say I don't regret it.
Because it aches still, when I revisit.

I know the words now but I didn't then.
How did I know I should have asked for help?

And this is ****** poetry and I lie to save myself
But for the love of God
I was so young then.

I was bad, bad, bad.
I was anger and wrath and pain
I was solitude and couches I didn't leave
And I was not taking showers and sleeping
All hours, all day, all week.

I was emptiness and grand plans
And empty promises and broken oaths

I missed you more than you have ever known.
I miss you still.

I miss you always.

I'm so sorry.