I can see your skin shining in the sun, still taste the liquor of your smile. I hope you find this and all your tattoos are still exactly where they need to be, where they should be.
Please stay the way you were when I left you and don’t return to a place where I cannot reach you.
I'm sorry that we don’t exist. I guess this would have been an apology letter if I had a single thing to be sorry about. I guess this whole mess could have been covered up and blown over.
Your laughter is like empty echoes of ghost whispers in hallways. I still feel like I’m playing hide and seek, and I’m waiting for you to come and tell me where to find you.
Come out; come out, wherever you are.
I think it’s your fucked up grammar and your inability to say the word “no”. That’s what pisses me off about this. I hate you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we don’t exist.
I’m sorry that I get so pissed off when I see you around. Because I know your smile is as cheap as a hat trick and your face is a lie and that I just can’t care anymore.
I’m sorry that in high school I knew all about your dirty secret and I didn’t say anything. Sorry for nothing because you don’t show a goddamn fault in your masquerade.
But they were touching you, and you were hurt. It hurt. I could see it in your face. You were hurt by them, and you became this seed, flowing too fast and too hard.
You breezed right through them. You blew right through me.
I’m tired of you covering it up, wearing your skin like a mask and letting ink talk in place of your defiance and your stubborn face. I’m so sick of the bull shit, I want you to notice me.
But you don’t notice anything. You notice what you want and what you want is what wounds you. I might have been fucked up for a while but I’d never do what they did. Not like you care.
I’m just another piercing in your mouth; I’m another tattoo in the canvas all over your flesh.
I can still see your skin shining in the sun.
Anyways, its summertime now and I have no clue where you are. Probably letting the wind go right through your bones and running far away from the places you’ll have to face someday.
Weeds always fall apart. I hope this letter finds you well and I’m sorry that I hate you.
I wish I were a ghost, I wish you didn’t blow right threw me.