Fucking Michael

In a nutshell, that's my dominant thought these days. Know why? Because fuck you.

How are you? Now it's been, what, four months? How's that career coming along? I'd have asked sooner, but you're kind of hard to get hold of.

I get the impression you tried to remove yourself from my life completely, and even though I'm no closer to knowing why, it's becoming clear that you didn't do a great job. Tear neatly along the dotted line between "you" and "me" and, guess what, I'm not over you, I'm not fine, I'm just hurting. I'm hurting still. Know why? You didn't even have it in you to make me hate you.

Come on. If I'm that insufferable, then cheat on me. Let me find you holding hands with someone else. Let me see dumb stupid compromising texts on your phone, whatever - if I hated you, you'd be nothing by now.

Or, y'know, if you want to practice basic decency, then tell me what I want to know. Tell me what I did wrong, tell me why you're sick of me - but can you? No! Cut me loose and leave me hanging! Why not!
It's been four months, Michael, and I'm not okay. I'm not okay, and I'm not okay because of you, and if you don't feel even just a little bit guilty then you're even less of the person I thought you were.

Why, though? Is it that hard, speaking to me? Drop me a line, drop me a fucking text, I don't care - I hate how much of a coward you are. If we were to bump into one another tomorrow in the street, you wouldn't even cross the street to avoid me. You'd do your infuriating "Helloo" with that dumb wave you do and, I don't know, maybe even ask me how I am, what do I know - but it wouldn't mean anything, and it wouldn't lead to any kind of conversation - especially not the conversation I want - and within seconds you'd be walking away again, and you'd leave me even more sad than I am now. I don't understand why you're so unwilling to clean up after yourself.

Just, fuck you. Fuck you.