This is the final one. The last story I will ever waste on you. This is the final goodbye. Maybe you’ll never see this, and you will never feel this reflection of the pain I felt, but maybe you will. Either way, this is the last time I will give words to someone who will only spit them back out. I am using the last of the blood you drew as ink and the wells of tears have grown dry. This is the last ode to the shadow of you you I had sat in for so long. I will no longer overflow and spill over with words for the boy who was terrified to even get his feet wet. You were just an angel fallen from the heavens with no desire to get back up, and you gave my words to the devil himself. I will not give up the last of my voice to the pits of you, not when I can give them to the boy who can re-light my soul. This is the last of my rage that I will let burn these pages. You gave me my voice back when I could not find it. And I refuse to let you drag it back into the depths of Hell to make yourself more human. I’m giving my words to someone who will remember them. My voice is going the person whose soul will let it in. The one who read and remembers that this is someone’s blood and tears, not just lead and ink. You never did appreciate how I chose to survive, so this is it. I hope I made it count. I’m giving my words to someone else. I’m getting my voice back, for the second time, and this time, I will not lose it. My stories are going to him, the one who remembered. The one who listened. The one who read, when no one else did. This is the final act for you.
I hope you finally listened.