The Writer

There was a time, in summer, that was sweet and hot.
When I knew who I wanted to be and have people around me.

There was a girl,
I used to love.
Her name,
I won't repeat-she is The Writer.

She wrote me a letter this day,
it made me smile,
worth while.

I replied and took a breath.
Thought about all the time I've had in her chest.
How I hurt her,
made her cry.

Broke her crown with wicked lies,
as her mind spills out onto the ground I think I see what I couldn't do, till  now.

She was my best friend.
She was my love.
She held my heart,
I sent hers to shred.

Before this I've never had anyone tell me I hurt them.
It was a shock,
like some cooky drug; but I wasn't getting that high.
Feeling tears spring at the last 'good-bye'

The Writer took time out of her busy life
to write to me.
To ME.

She cried on the keyboard,
salt dangling from her lips-I'm sure.
I cried into my palm,
relief seeping out of my head.

I haven't written about her in a long time,
not an upbeat one that is.
As the words reply in to my head
I sigh and breathe able to walk on.

I get it.
Want her to move on,
be happy, like I thought she was.

The Writer, this one's for you.

You should move on, I'll get the hell out of town when I go to college, it'll be easier that way for you.

Go on, get out, move on, smile, take a breath and then take another.

You deserve it just as much as I do.
There's nothing more to say,
all this tension now at bay.
No more suspension while I look out,
looking at a book you owned.

You made me realize that I needed help,
You send a sigh of relief down my back.

So when I am happy again,
don't thank therapy--

Thank The Writer.