I didn't tell you that I thought your songs were amateur and pathetic. Your poetry sounded whiny and depressing. I don't think your girlfriend deserves to have you writing that seriously about her, because I knew from the beginning that she didn't know how to love you. She was at that stage where she would go out with any guy that expressed interest. She wouldn't cry when you cried. She'd think you were a baby. She was that type.

I thought it was blind of you to devote your time to drugs. You made it seem as if your life was so worthless, when you were the one that made it that way. How can you feel as if you're worth anything when you're a slave to meth? When you're fidgeting and twitching and throwing up blood, but still can't stop overdosing? You started drugs at such a young age, I knew it'd follow you for the rest of your life.

I didn't tell you.

If you didn't trap yourself in your room all day, watching movies, then you would be more social. Being in isolation can drive you crazy. It can make you schizophrenic. Believe me, I read it on a medical site.

I didn't tell you.

School was a nightmare for you, as you can probably remember. You considered yourself so smart. As if getting good grades would be stooping to a lower level. As if you could get by in your own world, oblivious to the teacher's threats of flunking you.

I wanted to yell at you. You weren't even trying. Sometimes I'd look into your blank eyes and want to slap you. Why wouldn't you wake up? Why wouldn't you realize you were killing yourself? Why were you so BLIND?

I never liked your poetry. At least that's what I tell myself. Because I know I can't love somebody too much

(when I know they're going to fall.)