I don’t hate you, not anymore.  I mean, I did at first but that was because I had to get over you, and I am, for the most part, over that bulk, but there is still some residual emotion and that’s fine.  It’s natural and I accept that.  As far as being angry, yes, I am angry.  I’m angry at myself because initially I had planned to suffer in silence and keep my feelings to myself, but you were the one who brought it all up - and I feel like you have done nothing to own up to the choices you have made.  You were the one who opened the door and pointed out my feelings for you, and I walked through it, vulnerable, trying to see how far I could go.  I am angry at myself for being vulnerable, for allowing you in to become a vital part of my life.  I am angry that despite all the occasions I told myself not to cross a particular boundary, I did, and I am angry that you let me cross those boundaries.  You let me go there with you, admitting no discomfort or shame, just us, and that was enough to fool me into thinking I was special to you - that I was seeing a part of you no one else was.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe you’re the same way with everyone.  But what I am really angry about is the fact that when our friendship reached an impasse, you brushed it off like it was nothing - like I was nothing.  You cannot imagine the hurt I feel over that - to realize that I mean absolutely nothing to you when at one time you meant everything to me.  The scale is tipped in no one’s favor; it’s unfair.  You made absolutely no effort to care or inquire to know what was going on, and the way things seem, you probably never even realized I had left.  And that is what kills me.  Your apathy, your negligence, your ego, your pride, your flakiness - should be enough to force me to move on.  It should all be flashing a light bulb above my head as I come to the brutal realization that you are the worst thing for me, you are nothing, you are nothing’s nothing - low, dull, intangible nothingness - empty and void and cruel.  And yet, despite the day to day changings of how I feel, there is still something, and I hate myself for it.  I hate that when I compare myself to you: I remember, I feel, I love, I am intense.  You forget, you are inhuman, indifferent, you are simple.  You can throw me away and not feel a single thing, and if you felt anything, you would find some reason to justify it away.  I suffer.  I feel.  Why do you not?  Anyways, right now I just feel indifferent to you.  Aside from residual emotions lingering beneath the surface, you mean nothing to me.  I laugh at the feelings I’ve had for you.  I honestly do not care if I never see you again, and for my own sake, I hope I never do.  Maybe that’s cruel, and it’s usually at this point people feel the need to point out that I am being harsh or mean, that hate is not the answer.  This is not hate; this is indifference.  Tomorrow I will probably feel otherwise.  Whatever.  I wish I never met you.  I wish you did not exist.  I am writing this to you, more for myself, because I know you’ll never care to read anything about someone other than yourself. 

Written by Arthur C. McWilliams IV