Dearest Helpless,
I've grown tired of your self-pity
and lack of self-esteem,
the constant whining,
the ******* and complaining,
from morning 'til evening.
Always the same story,
never getting better.
Engraved in my memory,
I can recite it completely,
even reminding you at times
of the parts you're forgetting.
Years have passed,
and I see now
what I once thought
was a momentary lapse
in your heartbroken reasoning
has become your whole being.
No need to explain yourself.
I know who you are:
emotionally greedy,
wanting everything,
giving back nothing.
I remember times
when you were happy,
but daydreams awoke
to confuse reality,
what you thought was happening,
wasn't taking place at all.
I've stopped calling,
inviting you out with my friends,
who become your friends too.
I can't sit across from you,
listening to you complain
that you have no friends,
when one sits before you,
and another calls to see
what you're doing.
Maybe you'd be better off
in another country,
away from this city,
truly alone instead of pretending.
But I fear you'd fall in love
with a tree, a bird, or something
and end up with a broken heart
because your affection's object
is not a human being.
If you don't understand love,
speak nothing of it.
Study another subject.
I've lied to you
since the beginning.
I don't have the answers
to your questions.
I know nothing at all,
addicted to talking ****
when I'm not interested.
Share your story
with someone who hasn't heard it.
Maybe they'll have the answers
since mine don't seem to be helping.
I thought about introducing you
to someone new,
but three years later,
after your broken-hearted record plays,
they'd find themselves late
one Sunday evening,
surrounded by friends,
writing you a letter
to explain their feelings,
for they too have grown tired
of the same old story.
History repeats itself
when our patterns
become a habit.
But you never listened,
so I'll stop talking
and end this.
Sincerely,
A friend who will miss your stories.
