Dear you, II

Dear you, are you a friend or foe? I've let my walls down; you're free to crawl all over me, but over and over again, you stab your steel knife through my skin. You words- like venom, they burn me. It's either unintentional or you're just that fucking insensitive towards me, and after each occasion, you stretch out a helping hand, offering your company, but here's a warning: Quit acting all cordial; it disgusts me.

Dear you, you're not even dear to me. Irritating is an overstatement for describing you. "Irritating beyond a shadow of a doubt", as quoted from Felicia, is what I'd label you as. Stop initiating a text when you send me such... un-reply-able texts. Seriously, how the fuck do you expect me to answer that? One more time and I'll potassium you. Don't make me, 'cause I'll do it.

Dear you, I'm sorry your heart shattered. I'm sorry I crushed your confidence into powder. He told me so. He called me an asshole, and I suppose I am. I'm even more sorry that you're okay with it. Please hate me, throw darts at my picture, create a voodoo doll of me and stick pins into it, torture me mentally, anything; Just don't forgive me, 'cause I'd never forgive myself. One day, if you ever will, you're free to hide in my arms, or even disturb me like you always do, again.