The words stare back at my face. They mock me. Every letter dances around the screen. The words on paper glare at my being. The curves of your soft, lithe writing stabs my heart repeatedly. The light-weighted stain of ink on parchment smears against the depths of my soul. These were words of murder and deceit. Who were you  to write such kindness that haunts me from years ago?

I hope you're alright, everything will be OK. I’m always going to be here.

Were you? Were you always going to be here? Those words jump off the page as if they were alive—unlike you. They dance around me, grinning at the sadness that pierces everything I stood for. Why did you give me such words of reassurance? Why did you do it, when you could not back it up?

She won’t mind. It’s OK. Really, it doesn’t matter. You’re my friend.

Was I? Was I really your friend? Is that why you smiled at me under the radar, while you ignored my existence in front of others? Is that why you wrote words of kindness that softened my brittle soul, instead of facing me like a man and speaking to me? Did it not really matter? Is that why you did not defend me when she pushed me around in front of you?

The words you wrote were knives that caressed me in times of need. The characters that appeared on my screen were chains of love that captured me during my insanity. Your words were poison that relaxed my soul and kept me going on. You had my unrequited love that was killing me softly.

So I killed you.