I am so juvenile, you have let me go, as if I am complete and ready to experience the intact world at the palm of my hands, upcoming the hope that I will make the right mistakes. Exposed. And already fatigued. I have to speculate how that can make you ecstatic. You’re lined and serviceable, in drug oblivion.
You‘re on cloud nine. Because of everything, anything but me.
Well, perhaps I’m just mistaken, but I have run from you. Seeing as a three year old, and packing up my belongings. I’ve sat in the back seat and I‘ve watched for many hours of my life. But I don’t consider them wasted. I’ve spent a lot of time in the back seat. But not that way you think you scrutinize it. Because you’re forever invalid when it comes to me. Always.
It was your idea, that I depart. So I’ve left and you assume it’s all because of you. So, go ahead and flatter yourself.
I want to thank you, for making my years as a child obscured, and keeping me naive of the things you’ve put us all through. Maybe I was too optimistic, or just blind. But you’ve always been anxious to one day see that I’d wake up and know the world more than it knows me.
-I wish I could say, love always. Because from this point on there is no always.