To my ex best friend,

I know you’ve never been good at listening,

so let me put this in a way you might understand.

I've never been good at Rock Paper Scissors.

It seems that everybody always has different rules I am never able to keep up with.

Go on scissors,

Go on shoot,

Add a gun, add a bomb

No two people play it the same way

And they almost never come with an instruction manual.

In the rare case I find one

It's soaked and torn destroyed by the wind

And I am always a page behind.

Not until they throw rock do I realize I should have thrown paper

Their pattern doesn't stand out until after the game is over

Hindsight is the only language I understand.

So when someone gives me a paper cut clean across my chest I don't learn to carry scissors until they've switched to tossing rocks at my self esteem.

The countdown commences

Debate between my health and my morality

Rock

Is it wrong to defend myself?

Paper

If I win they'll never let me live it down.

Scissors there's no going back now.

Shoot!

A gun from out of nowhere I never could have prepared for

But I let them visit me in the hospital

Boom!

A bomb destroying my cabin of serenity

But I build it back up and invite them in for hot chocolate.

I'm so sorry... about this mess

Rewrite the story they shredded and grant them access to my inner monologues

I try to follow as they flip the script from best friends to enemies then back again

I grant far too many rematches long after I should quit,

I get crushed under fists and harassed for things as trivial as my music tastes

Yet I am always the one crying as I beg for second chances

Let's Rock Paper Scissors

Winner gets to be a murderer

Loser gets to be a victim

A crumbling skeleton

Breaking down

Broken down

Accepting the beat down

The war on a two inch battleground

Stab me in the gut with your scissors as I leave you with an apology note for being too easy to beat.

You always have to one up me by crushing and crumpling my dreams like last year's newspaper

Heck, Even that's more relevant to you than I am.

Cut the last attachments I have to my sanity

Then convince me I am overreacting.

Shoot me in the foot and complain I'm walking too slowly

And I'll listen because I'll believe you're doing this to help me, as if killing my spirit will make somebody love me.

Your insults are the funeral march you won't bother to give me

the bruises from being thrown into your computer desk are the flowers you refused to lay.

I understand you leaving me to die alone.

My corpse is just a burden and I wasn't even a worthy competitor

Take your stones and use them to knock down another instead of crafting me a tombstone

And don't bother writing an obituary

Why waste your energy on a victim you never cared about?

I was the loser, after all.

Sincerely,

your victim.