Maybe I’m growing up

There it was on my Live Writer, a whole long diatribe about how I’m mad at you. Why I’m mad, what you said, what you did.

But it’s not going to change the fact that I hate someone who used to matter a lot to me.

Why bring out all the dirty laundry? Why say any more things to wound and to hurt when all the insults and irreparable damage is done and gone?

There was a cuss word a plenty, a long rage-filled rant fest.

Before I could even hit Publish, I read it and decided that though it made me feel better to write it, I didn’t need to share it with the world.

It felt good to just get all the bile, the hurt, the bitterness into words.

Because really, all that hate is just the product of a year’s sadness, grief and angst. I let it out, I processed it and then let it go.

Nobody has to read my pain to make it real.

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