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Feb 7
I am glad to know there are people who appear on the surface softhearted, but live in a virtual world of appearance and superficial praise.

I am glad to know that whatever retribution for whatever ****** things I have whatever done, has been paid, at least I hope.

This is heartbreak, a ****** mess of feeling like i want to be punched in the face or left for dead or both.

This is death, a deliverance of pettiness and unfettered readiness.

This is apathy, the way to give up give up give up and not stop giving, until there is nothing left for you to take. This is apathetic. This is a pathetic note.

I rarely feel understood. I feel deceived and betrayed by you. I recognize my role, and at one point wanted us to communicate, begged you to communicate, pleaded for a single word, but everything fell on deaf ears.

I want you to recognize your role, for your sake. When the social media train runs out, and the fake friends run out, and the campaign loses steam, what will you have then? Hopefully your friends, your family, the unwavering statues of normalcy in a life of a girl who wishes only for fantasy, who cowers from real human struggle, and by doing so, never works through her own. Never a woman, always a girl. And I was always a boy.

This is a letter from a boy who accepted you all as you were, as a person, imperfect, but perfect for me. From a boy who did not accept a virtual version. This is a letter from a boy who cares not for instagram, famous faces, and other places. This is a letter from a boy who saw in you something spectacular and watched it disappear before his eyes. This wonder, this presence, this in the moment, forever essence. Now you're plugged in, the red carpet's coming, and I hope it makes you happy.

Love songs are coming and I'm sure they will be sappy, I hope they make you feel ****** like they make me feel.

An entire two years of music is dead. Anything you believed in, in me, is dead. I do not buy your lies. I have killed them off. And now, I too touched by your lying fingers, feel like, I ought to be dead too.
Richard j Heby
Written by
Richard j Heby  new york city
(new york city)   
101
 
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