There’s this thing that’s been on my mind lately.
It used to be there frequently, but now that I mentioned last night to someone, it’s come back.

In the 7th grade I said, “I hate you.”
“How can you hate me when you don’t even know me?” you replied.

You proceeded to wander across the classroom each and every morning to tell me,
“Go cut yourself emo kid.”

I know I deserved it, judging someone because everyone else had one perception of them.

8th grade arrived, and there you were.
Your scene hair and skinny jeans, the hippest kid in the entire school.
But everyone hated you. They hated you.

I know now, you told people to die because you saw their ugly looks.
You knew the words that were whispered behind your back as you wandered down the halls.

Then it was you and me.

I ignored you when you followed along beside me, “Why do you take happy pills Joyce?” “You should try drinking bleach.”

I went home every single day and screamed my hate towards you to my father.
He asked me if I wanted you reported, but of course I declined.

A few weeks later, you followed me to my lunch table.
I don’t know where you sat before then,
and I’m not sure if those people wanted you there either.

We talked, you showed me records.
You told me I was pretty, and you told me I was nice.
But back then, I cared more for what the greater amount of people thought about me.
I was constantly asked if I was actually friends with you, and I always replied with a disgusted, “Never!”

Kindness to your face, hatred behind your back.

One day you told me, “You’re my best friend.”
And if I hadn’t been in school,
I probably would have cried.

You were expelled for too many fights, and even now, nearly four years later, people still hate you.
You’re across the country, and people still hate you.

I just wanted to say,
I’m sorry.