1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I hate this, I tell her. Everything fucking hurts. They weren’t supposed to
bury her. I shouldn’t have let him. She saw a movie when she was a kid,
about a woman buried alive, and it scared the shit out of her. She didn’t
want to go underground, but my father said we needed a place to visit her
as if her wishes weren’t the most important thing.
I close my eyes, wetness coating the rims of my lids. Anger churns
inside me, and it flows down my arms as I carve the words into the paper.
I can’t write you. And when I can, I can’t send the goddamn letters. I
want to hurt you. I don’t know why. Probably because you’re the only
person I have left to hurt. Every letter you send that I don’t answer is the
only thing that makes me feel good anymore. You want the truth? That’s it.
It feels good to play with you like this. It gives me pleasure, knowing you’re
thinking about me but wondering if I’m thinking about you.
I’m not. I never do.
I keep writing, letting every ugly thing spill out, because she loves me,
she wants me to be happy, and she wants me to smile and do mundane shit
like talk about Star Wars and music and what I’m doing for college. Who
the hell is she to assume there aren’t more important things than her going
on in the world?
All your letters, over all the years, immediately went into the garbage
after I read them. Didn’t you see how pathetic you looked? Sending five
letters for every one of mine? I’ll bet you deluded yourself, too. Did you