I Hate You For Dying

To Caleb:

You’re not here to read this so I don’t feel the need to mince words:

I Hate You For Dying.

Fuck you, you selfish, drug-addled prick. I nursed you back to health through your morphine addiction. You slept on my couch for months and I welcomed it, all because I thought I was helping you. I thought you’d get better. What did I know?

I loved you. You and I connected with each other in a way I can’t explain. We made it through a hit and run together, quietly. We killed prostitutes, loudly. I sang at your wedding, poorly.

In that particular instance, I was cut off by the minister because I played too long and too much; I wanted to show both of you how much I cared. You two walked down the isle a bit  too quickly, and I didn’t even notice that you’d reached the altar. Not that it mattered.

The marriage failed after a few months, and I don’t think you ever recovered.

It failed, and then you failed.

You could have gone on, though. You could have made it. YOU COULD HAVE COME THROUGH.

I hate your irresponsibility. I hate the fact that you died of an overdose. I hate that you died alone without a soul-mate to guide you through some of the darkest times in your life. I hate myself for being so much better off. I hate the fact that I was more lucky than you in finding a mate who suited me and with whom I could live a happy life.

I hate you for making me feel responsible for your death.

I miss you like crazy.

I love you, and always will…


About this entry