Carissa,

I know you don't read this.

I know you've spun a grand tale to justify everything, the kind of tale that puts the Brothers Grimm to shame and lets you fall asleep at night with a shit-eating grin on your face and a sense of self-righteousness forever tucked in your back pocket. I know that no matter what kind of shambles your life is in, it's never your fault. I know blame, shame and dignity slide right off of you. I know all that.

I know, also, that you're toxic, and now that you've burned through everyone who will tolerate you, everyone who loved you and held you dear, your world will go septic and your cold, broken, bruised, battered little heart will slow to a crawl and finally stop.

(I was the most like you. I was the one you had plans with. I was the one you swore you loved, your best friend, you sister. I never judged you. I still don't despise you.)

But I do(n't) understand you (anymore).

In the aftermath, someday, when the sun's gone out and the world, too, is dying, you may or may not resent your actions. You may or may not forgive me for whatever imagined way I slighted you. You may or may not shed a tear for what you've lost.

But you will -- unquestionably -- miss the sun.

And it will never find you again.


Love (for never and ever),

Me