Specific, I know.
I hope you’re happy with yourself. Genuinely.
Causing enough trauma to cause a split in identity to a child that looked up to you dearly.
Now we’re graduated and I have been split to deal with you. I have become you. I am that internal voice in our head with your sound. I’m manic, and you caused it. I hope you’re happy.
Have fun in Nashville, at the Red Letter Awards.
Maybe you’ll find out one day that she’s controlled you and made you think it’s ours and our siblings’ fault when it’s not.
They were having a medical emergency.
It’s happened before.
You hurt us. Emotionally, mentally, physically.
Standing over us saying “suicide is a selfish act” angrily while bitterly talking about your past with your father and drugs and whatnot.
Thanks for the money.
Don’t contact us again. Not through Mom, not through Kieran, not through Grandma, not through anyone. You’ve done enough harm.
There’s a pattern, open your fucking eyes and see it’s you.