year 1.

i remember the earlier notebooks.

they'd promised me that writing was therapeutic, but all i could ever render were angry scribbled across the tear-stained pages whenever i tried to get You out of my head and onto paper.

(it would be a long time before i could write about You again.)

& i know You felt it, when Your mother punched me in the face at Your funeral.

'you killed my baby.
it's all your fault.
you you you you-'


you pushed Her. you told Her she wasn't good enough. you yelled and punished and expressed your DISAPPOINTMENT.

all i did was miss a very important phone call.