>The words of the betrayed

>I gave you one last chance to denounce your deceit and return you to the status of "human being" in my mind, but you shot it down.

I want you to know that from the very beginning, starting with the conveniently onset "ghost stories" that you spouted from your vile tongue that I never believed you. I knew with each suicide attempt that you were doing it for nothing more than guilt tripping me back to you, and your lying to me about cancer was just the next step in the process. It blows my mind that for all this time, I so desperately wanted to believe you for, if anything, to validate my own sanity and to prove that I'm wasting neither my time nor emotions, but you vehemently proved me wrong.

You always asked what about me changed, well dear let me tell you it was not me that has changed. I simply stopped believing every word you said. From this point on, even though you tell my mother repeatedly that we will be friends again, I will never trust you enough to grace you with that title.

Yes I will write songs about you. Yes they will hurt your feelings. Yes people will hear them, memorize them, sit in their rooms for hours to figure them out so that they can play them around the next campfire or cover them at their shows, and yes, they will all know your name.

I know that you are going to turn this on me somehow with some attempt to be eloquent but I will have you know that there is no way possible that this is my doing. I never pitied you for the cancer, because I knew all along that it was nothing more than a calumnious jumble of empty words, but I will tell you this: I pity you not for any physical malady but for the sickness you have made up in your mind. You have successfully turned into your father, congrats.

I am your ex-nothing

But I forgive you.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.