The beginning of this is much too formal. Dear.
My feelings for you are like an ex-boyfriend. I can see why a part of me likes you, but the reason why I dislike you is much clearer. And this is going to be a lot like a letter to an ex.
You took away a lot from me. You took away my best friend, and my mother. I'm starting not to care what I put out there, risque or not. They need to know what you did.
We've got beef now. I heard of you a few times and have seen the sadness and loss in people's eyes. But never had I felt it until mom got sick. That's when I understood that this impending expiration date was all a part of your game.
I am Catholic. I do believe there is a heaven and that you aren't real. You aren't a person, just an act.
Some people say they see a warm bright light when they meet you. I've never heard the other side of things. I'm guessing you have a good and bad side, like us here. Some say you're an angel.
This is the only thing getting me through this grief, giving it some purpose. It is that the innocent, the sick, those killed in war or in tragedy, they are somewhere infinitely better than here.
But for a moment I'd like to blame something. That's normally how grief goes anyway.
In many ways, you've shown me maturity. You've shown me that sometimes, grief can get you anywhere. It can buy you time, but can also blur the lines of time: How much time there really is, and how much time I just want to spend in bed all day.
The only reason I almost think of you as noble is because you are taking the pain away of those who are in pain because of disease or illness. But younger children, teenagers at the cusp of their lives: at their prime? That, I don't understand.
Let me address again, that you are just an act. You are merely an act, and yet I'd like to refer to you as a person but you won't fight back. You won't yell at me and tell me you have no choice. You won't apologize. This is the moral limbo where my melancholy mindset lies. Because I don't know if you have no choice but to tear those we love away from us either quickly with tragedy, or slowly with disease.
And if you're sorry, I forgive you. Because my faith reminds me that my Mom, my best friend, my grandfather, my great uncle, they're all in heaven.
But might I say, I dislike your, for lack of a better word, execution of things. I hate that it was a slow death, and I hate that it was tragic.
Either one is awful, so unexpected even if the doctors told me straight to my face she only had a few more weeks, even if the last thing Jake said to me was "see you later". Even if I had a million post-it notes flying down from the blue sky saying they would die. Even if every day, my professors ended each class with "your loved ones will die". I still wouldn't be ready for you.
We've got beef, we always will.
But you remind me of a really grumpy business man: you hate what you do, but you gotta do it because it pays the bills.
