I hate that you don’t call, and that you rarely write; I hate that you hardly tell me anything, never sharing your plights. I hate that you assume I understand, and I hate that now I do; I hate missing you this much, and I really want to hate you.
I hate it that you don’t respond when you’re online, and that I care to check; I hate that you make me feel unloved, and cry with my head on my desk. I hate that you worry that I don’t love you anymore, and that you have less proof that me; I hate that you make me feel this way, and that you’re surprised that I care.
You don’t call- I do. You don’t write — you answer. You don’t talk — you ask questions. You didn’t leave — I did. But I’m the only one that’s trying. It hurts. Do you know how much it hurts? To never hear the phone ring; to never get a surprise letter. To remind myself that you do care, you do remember, you do love, you do miss. To close my heart on an empty stomach and go to sleep with a heart not broken, but tattered, and put together roughly with cheap sellotape. Can you wonder why I’m slow to open up? Quick to chat, quick to hang, chill, talk; but slow to let people in? Slower still to invite others to let me in? Why would I ask for such a careless thing; look how badly you’ve treated me. You think I don’t call often enough? You think I don’t show you my work often enough?
Well, you never call. You never write. You haven’t shown me anything you’ve done since I was in ninth grade, still in Israel.