You made me suicidal. Yes, you. It is your fault that I crouched in my kitchen sobbing for an hour staring at the knife rack. It is your fault I poured out the pill bottle and counted every single one over and over again. It is your fault that I break for the road when I’m upset.
I’m better now, just so you know, in case you care. Not entirely, of course, you can never be completely free from something like that. Even if I was 100% happy, which I’m not, those thoughts and moments and memories will haunt me for the rest of my life.
The worst part is of course that if you were to ever read this you would laugh it off. You’d tell me that I had just overreacted. You’d tell me you didn’t mean. And even if you did tell me you were sorry, you wouldn’t mean it.
I hate you. I hate every single fiber of your stupid, smug, insufferable being but still I’m forced to see you and interact with you every single day. This is torture to me, and barely registers with you.
Go fuck yourself.