number two. (tantrums again)

and I must then figure out new ways to fill my time. and I won't fail. two months, three years, what difference does it make? you won't care anyway. get busy with the world that revolves around you, so cold, so white, so loathsome. me, trying to dig out "the better part of me" (it was not gone with you, it was buried by your silence). still hurt by places and words here to torture me but I will learn new roads to avoid until I heal. don't take me wrong... these public letters to you are my sick sad little ways to call your overwhelming name. does this matter in the end? I don't know... you tell me. I mean, please tell me...