You are merely a myth – a work of fiction in my mind. I have no face in mind while writing this, just the empty side of my mother's bed in our one bedroom apartment. We've moved on since then, and it's only gotten worse. I have a house, a horrible half sister, and a step father I truly and passionately hate. Would it have been this way if you'd stayed? Would my life be the pitiful wreck it is? I wouldn't think so.
Sometimes I cry. Well, I cry every day, but I mean sometimes I really cry. I never know why I'm crying, I just break down. It's all too much. Or... specifically, too little. I think I'm lonely, but I can never be sure. I don't know what it feels like to not be lonely, if that's what it is. Maybe it's all my fault. Maybe I'm such a horrible person that it was already apparent at birth, and that's why you bolted. I have a theory in mind: it's all my fault.
It truly seems that way.
Of course I would think that. What the hell else could it be? I've never gotten an explanation. I don't even know your name. I'm not good enough to know who half of me is. Everyone wonders why I have such horrible self esteem. I know I'm not good enough for lots of people... Because, your parents are supposed to always be there for you. Always. They are supposed to be there and love you no matter what happens.
Well, if I'm not good enough for my own parent, who the hell am I good enough for?