Dear Blade:

I wish I had never believed a word you said.

You whispered secrets to me, told me you could make it all better. You lied. I think I knew it then, too. But you were a damn good liar. And what makes a good liar is consistency. And what did I need in my life more than consistency?

Something steady, a rock. You let my waves crash into you. You let my gusty, uncertain winds pummel you. You let my unforgiving, torrential rain pound on you. And as that goddamned rusted water spilled over and licked at your edges, you didn’t utter a complaint. You took my pain and made it yours, simply by causing me pain. Or at least, it looked like it for a while.

But I soon learned that there were four conditions you would consistently leave me in: disappointed in myself, sore, swearing I’d never visit you again, and begging for more. Secret rendezvous in the dimly lit evenings made my attachments to your blatant untruths grow ever stronger. I’d slip out of my room, telling myself that oh, I was just going to get water. Sure. See, one thing about you is that your bad habits and lies are contagious; they catch on quick, too. Before I knew it, your lies had become mine: you had me lying to my parents, my closest friends, myself. I had let our lives become intertwined, and I think that’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made to this day.

And my friends. Really, couldn’t you have left them alone? Of course. But you didn’t. No, many of them you’ve sucked into your little traps too. They never deserved it. I never deserved it. In fact, noone does. Yet you’re still so popular and so goddamned strong, so strong it hurts. But guess what?

Me and my friends? We’re okay without you. Yeah, no. We’re GREAT without you. We have eachother, and that’s all we’ll ever need. I will never see you again, at least never in the same light. You were never a hero, and you never will be. Don’t ever try to pretend you can help me again. I’ve learned my lesson.