I'm sick of the smiles in our photographs, because I'm not happy, and I don't understand how I ever could be.
When we drove to your funeral, we had to pull over so that I could puke and cry, it got all over my dress and we had to go back home so that I could change.
I went into my room and stripped naked, then I started screaming and throwing things, I broke the mirror, and ripped everything off the walls, I threw the sheets and the covers all onto the floor. I ripped all the clothes of their hangers, pushed everything off the open surfaces, threw everything I could find at the windows, wanting to prove to myself that something could break more than a heart.
I hate myself, but mostly I hate myself for loving you, for letting myself forget the world and get lost in you.
I hate myself, for not asking you when I had the chance, or telling you, or even caring enough to show it.
I'm sorry that I can't think straight, and that I never will, and that you'll never understand me the way that I understood you.