I got extremely heavy boots over the past few days because I thought about the world, and me, and you, and how insignificant we really are and how, compared to the universe and time, it doesn't matter if I even exist at all.
All last night I wanted to spit out all the words I never said into a violent wind that would knock on your door, but I kept mixing up my sentences and stumbling on every word. (I can't remember whether you love me or not) When I saw you on the street the other day, I knew you wouldn't have noticed me. I wanted to run away and never talk to anyone again, I wanted to hide under my bed, because I'm some where lost in the back of your mind, but I knew it wouldn't have helped me. If I need to cry, I'll cry on the inside, if I need to bleed I'll bruise. No one really wants to know what I have to say, and it doesn't make anything better, it just makes everyone life worse. I'm sorry.
But I have so much to tell you, the problem isn't that I'm running out of room, this book is filling up, there couldn't be enough pages, I looked around the apartment this morning for one last time and there was writing everywhere, filling the walls and mirrors, I'd rolled up the rugs so I could write on the floors, I'd written on on the windows and around the bottles of wine we were given but never drank, I wear only short sleeves, even when it's cold, because my arms are books, too. But there's too much to express. I'm sorry.
That's what I've been trying to say to you, I'm sorry for everything. For having said goodbye those years ago when maybe I could have saved you from your idea, or at least died with them. I'm sorry for my inability to let things go, for my inablility to hold on to the important things. And in the end now, I am the clay and you are the sculptor.