twenty

You are not the future. You are not the key. You will miss me. Maybe not yet. Maybe not even soon. But in a year, or two years or ten years, you will think of those times and you will wonder what happened to me. Perhaps you will regret that you did not stay in touch. Perhaps you will try to ring me, but I won't have the same number and I'll be too angry at you to answer even if I did. You must have realised by now that you are not the centre of everybody's fucking life and even though nobody says it to you, when you interupt or take over or strive to be the centre of attention, you are surrounded by crackling hatred. I do not want to be you. I want you to be me. You will not even read this. You will not notice how, for once, I am using the true you. It is possible that you do not even realise how angry your words make me and maybe (maybe...) it is my own hostile, desperate, loveless mind that is twisting every word you write, but each letter is like a needle being stuck deep into my skin, and I flinch but it doesn't matter really.

You are not awkward enough for me anyway. You cannot even begin to imagine the things I think about.