Sticks and stones may break my bones, and words will always hurt me. But no one - I repeat, no one - ever decides what kind of person I am. Call me materialistic, tell me I step on others to make my way up; It pricked me like a fucking thorn, when I thought you knew me best, but I hope you choke on the words you failed to swallow. It's unfair that he got away scot-free, while I get to be the scapegoat. What does that mean, then? That I never meant shit to you? But hah, nothing is ever fair, isn't it?
A letter and a gift -- as ironical as it may seem, these were what set us apart. I could have summed everything up into a "fuck you"", but I didn't. So fuck you, for wasting every ounce of courage I mustered for you. Fuck you, for judging the book even before flipping the cover. Fuck you, for not reciprocating the faith I had in you.
And you,
Go ahead and put your arms around what you call as your "bro"s, because that's all you're good at doing, and they're all you've got anyway. It only amuses me to see you cower behind them, using them as your shields.
This time, don't expect me to soften up and give in again.
Watch me return, sturdier and all bricked up.
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