It's done — the desire to talk to you, to hear you laugh, to hear your dad jokes — it’s done. I don’t care anymore about your excuses, your suffering. What’s truth? What’s a lie? Who the fuck cares? The fact lies here — you killed the girl who loved you. She doesn’t exist anymore. When she kept trying to reach you, with fresh wounds, dangerously close to bleeding out, you dismissed her. Now you don’t get to be shocked by her corpse. And please, don’t even think about buying flowers now — it’s far too late, and way too little.









