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When the anger comes, it comes in waves. Crashing against the shores of our reality.
It is constant, never washing away the pain.
I watched you, watched you hurt her over and over. As a child, now as a woman.

Shame on you, shame on you for the shame you bring all of us. You're sick, I agree.
However, not in the ways you claim to be. Your illness is a selfish one, an infectious one.
It's continuance makes those around you suffer. Your only chance for recovery is acknowledgement.

You won't though. You never have. You blame her. You blame us. You blame those already gone.
Your need, your twisted, demented need will ultimately be your end.

She, who you blame, and have damaged, she will be the one left to clean up your mess.
Her spirit torn, her confidence bruised, her story a lie. Your lie.

I long to scream, to hit, to cut, to make you feel all you have made her feel. She is amazing, and you see none of it. Only what she can be to you. She deserves better. She's found it in him. I rejoice she was strong enough to hold on to it and go with him. He is the rock you never were for her.

Distance helps, but doesn't heal. Your long reach still stings her. She knows now. She knows better. She knows we are here for her.

I will not speak up for you. Not ever. I cannot understand your motivations. I struggle to find any love for you anymore. I am sad at how easy it has become for me not to care. I don't care, not about you.

So write your imaginary life and death. Maybe someday we can at least appreciate it as a great work of fiction. Just know, it is your story, and I will not, we will not, let it become hers.