To Whom It May Concern:

Me and mornings aren’t exactly on speaking terms
anymore, from all the waking with the outlet box pressed
neatly against the small of my back. Teetering
on the edge of a long thin bed, opening my eyes
and rather than the ceiling I see
the springs, the underside. I hid beneath
and slept below to have room to stretch
and curl because no matter what
you had to have your space. You had to
be the only person in your world.
So much so that you pushed me out of it,
out of the bed, out of your room.
I was never satisfied with being merely transparent
to you. Whether I am here or not doesn’t
matter, so I guess I’ll slip away again into
another nondescript October. You
and I were never on the same page.
You were of the day and slept when I
thrived at night, and so I tried to put my
night life to bed and shake loose
some latent love for morning. How twisted
that I saw you clearly and never breathed
a word for change, and you never could accept
my eccentricities. You thought I was broken, thought
I was weak. I think you must not have looked
at me. I know what I am, and I am strong.
I know what I want, and I want to cherish
like you never could. You asked me to change,
to love less, to live less, to take less
and give less. Was it ever me you wanted?

My father always joked, You’ll miss me when I’m gone.
Then he died at thirty six and they understood.
I should break my heart as a precaution.
Could you ever understand the meaning
that lies beneath words? You never had a sense
of the sin of not living because you
never made any plans for dying.

You saw this, the thirst for life,
the need to relish... you knocked
it down and
so I hate you. I hate you,
and I hate all of this.

--------------

This is a re-write/edit. Input desired.