you used to say that I loved her more. i'd say never and try to hold you. you used to tell me to shut-up when we were in the car when I started to serenade you with my tiny voice. I knew you didn't want to hurt me, that you were just embarrassed. My voice was never tiny and neither was I. You were bigger than my father and all of elementary school. When I left, we didn't kiss. just a formal hug and goodbye. I missed you terribly once I got to Arizona, and again in Colorado and again in Connecticut. I still miss you but I always felt that somehow, loving you was a mortal weakness. When I sat in the Smoking Chair with the gun loaded in my mouth, I understood what a weakness you were. I never wanted to die, just to stop missing you. I'm not dead. I still miss you.
screaming at low volumes
