I left the letter by the door, but
I think mommy read it. She
asked if I wanted to talk about it.
I said “no” but I really meant “yes,”
She didn’t realize that.

I was just trying to say that nothing
felt right anymore and that
you needed to come home, but I
guess I didn’t yell loud enough
because you didn’t.

So it makes me wonder if you
got the balloons on your birthday
or if you heard me singing before I
went to bed.

And then I wonder
if God passed on the messages
before I gave up on believing in him.
You never responded, not a word not a
sign and so I gave up on believing in you, too.

Then mommy changed. I guess
she hates me now; she doesn’t
even look at me the same.
She thinks that I hate her,
but I really don’t. Not like
I hate you for leaving me.

But I guess all I’m really trying to say
is that I don’t believe in anything anymore,
and it’s all your fault.

I miss you.