A Letter to the Unconcerned


To whom it will not concern,

I know I shouldn’t waste precious time wondering – for, like generations of coastline, there is only so much salt a delicate cheek can dredge – but at times like this, I can’t help myself.

Very simply – and fully cognizant of the futility of so doing – I wonder if you ever, even for a moment, consider how yet another – upon another – smirk effects me?

I have not done, and nor am I doing, everything I said I would be by now, right at this precise moment in time. But what I lack what in success, I more than make up for in self-loathing. In fact, both of these things are intimately intertwined, and the latter is by no means immune to your input.

If you think that I could, once again, do with another put down – whether innocently-intended or otherwise – you would be so tremendously, hair-raisingly, press-stoppingly, embarrassingly wrong.

If you think I am unhappy for not having got to where I said, and hoped, I would be, by this point in my life – both on a macro and a micro level – you would, this time around, be spot on:  so scintillatingly spot on like a sniper’s bullet tearing through a pitifully-exposed cranium; like your pointed words which so effortlessly dice my damned heartstrings.

I would ask further questions, but I know they are transparent. I only wish that I was too, so perhaps you could see the hurt you cause.


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