You never were happy, no matter how many times you won.


You hated me for just being with you.


You used to rant about how society prevents us from being free.


Once, you smashed down a door.


There seemed to be two sides to you- the one that was crazy and the one that was nice.


You loved to set fire to wooden sticks.


You also loved to run.


You died on your sixteenth birthday


It was a suicide.


You never paid attention to me, even though I was your boyfriend.

All the while, when you were alive, you hated me.

But all I wanted was for you to be happy.

Nowadays, frequently, I think about you.

I wonder if, when you were alive, you did too.