only because the stone is rolled and the curtain torn;

Hey you.

Before you read this, before my words cause your thoughts to run and blood to boil, let me just admit right now that this will infuriate you; you will not agree with this message, my perceptions. You will tell your friends, tell them all about your “problem child.” And they’ll side with you, because friends do that. None of them have the authority to challenge you.

I do.

And that’s what’s pissing you off, the unnatural stir of events, assertions on my own part that make you shift in your seat. Shift and shift again. I will not send you this letter. You will not read these words. Give me pen and paper and I will paint the portrait; this leaves you at a mighty disadvantage. I will not fall to the curse of this family, to hide behind letters sent by technology or uniformed men, with futile fervor to bridge the gap between us consisting not of miles but of years of turmoil, resentment, unspoken words, forgotten apologies and consequent harbored bitterness. I am no coward. These words, should they meet you, will leave my face and come upon your own. You’ll threaten to cut the ties, to change the will, and I will walk away. I am not tied to you, I am not your puppet, I am not your punching bag, and I will not be your door mat. You, you will retreat and stew and relive these words, pervert the recollection when you tell the story through your distorted lens. I will sigh over you, and you will continue to plague my thoughts. I will not be free from you. But I will not be under you.

And that’s what scares you. No one else has stood for and by you as I have; no one else has taken your crap. I am the puppy you beat; I always return cowering with my tail between my legs. You had control. You had the power to punch.

You have been battling your own demons since your childhood, for so long that the bleeding wounds now blind you and all you can see is red. Your world is painted with your hatred, and you seek only things to serve you now. You have grown increasingly less selfless over time, convinced you have not been paid your due. Take this up with your debtor if you must, but do not take it up with me.

Keep your cookie cut-out of my character, for it is the only reference you will have to relive the past and design the future in which you want to live. You can choose brokenness or you can choose grace, and my bet is you’ll take the former. You will stay in the ditch you’ve dug yourself, but I will hold the rope for you. I will be near enough only to hear you call my name. But I will not crawl down there with you, and I will not be pulled down. I will not play second to your latest lover, and I will not be kicked just to serve you. I will not be bruised in meeting your demands. Meet them on your own. Take your own advice. Act like an adult. Treat your parents with respect. Grow up and stop immediately assessing every situation as if you are the victim, for I am not always the villain.

I know. This isn’t true, you are never wrong, you are only mistreated and misunderstood. How dare I be so mistaken to write this, let alone allow these thoughts to run amuck in my head as they have? By what authority may I defend myself and choose to lead a better life? Wherever did I get the impression that it is never good enough for you, that you will always find something to attack? Why is it that you cannot live in a state of peace? Why do you never question motives, you never examine the situation, you never account for circumstance? You’ll sleep better if you stay the way you are, cuddled with your skeletons, guarded by your demons. Let them tell you none of this is true, there is nothing wrong, and the world is against you. All your enemies created themselves out of sheer desire; I was born to. I was born to make you miserable. At a young age, before I acquired language, I set out to destroy you. It is your goal to make sure I do not succeed.

Go ahead, and fight that battle. You’ve already lost the war.

Enjoy the dark. The mess you made of me, the lies you spoke of me will join you and haunt you and you will wonder what you did so wrong in a past life that never happened to deserve such offense.

- Yours, if only by blood.