"I'm sorry" is all I can rasp out. How pathetic. You never say it, but I've learned to read when you're disappointed. You are such a good actor; this face slips so easily by your students. I, however, am not one of your students.

"It's alright." You say. But you don't mean it. You know I suck at math, but I know you wish I didn't. I know you wish I would finally just learn to do it, to just listen to your lectures and it will finally sink in. But I am stubborn in the not-so-good way, and I will not. I twiddle my pencil, I let my eyes wander. Sometimes I just stare at your face, because it's so much prettier than mine.

I constantly disappoint you. I could not go out with you; I could not help you clean much. I couldn't run many errands, or anything too energy-sapping. How I regret that. I want to help you, to give you something in return for all your hard work, but how could I?

How utterly useless I am.

I caused you much pain, I know this. I hurt you with my words, and I hurt you with my constant reminders of how you weren't there to witness the sounds of the horrid murders I had.

"Don't you give me that medicine, it tastes like cow piss."

"Leave me the fuck alone, I don't want you here!"

"You couldn't possibly know what I feel right now. You weren't even there."

I'm sorry, is all I can think, now. I am so awful to you, but each time you take it like rubber, always bouncing back into shape with every blow.

I loved you, and yet never said it. I wonder if you would've said it back.

I never understand how you could put up with me. You taught me such great things, despite. You were patient, easy-going, and never yelled at me more than that one time. You told me how to treat people, and how to treat myself. You taught me I could achieve anything if I really wanted it.

You had big soft brown eyes that had a cold core, and a friendly smile that could kill. You held me when I woke up from night terrors, and you kissed my sores and wounds all better. You tirelessly hunted for hospitals and doctors that could treat me, despite the result always being "He's a Mourning Dove. This is simply how they are", and in addition to you juggling multiple jobs to keep up with the apartment bills and our own needs.

You home-schooled me, although we both knew you didn't have a knack for literature or arts like I did. I didn't mind, I just loved hearing you talk. You and your intelligent brain took me on adventures that didn't need to interest me for me to enjoy the simple pleasure of your company.

You sought for the best for me, I know that. You made a mistake, but I knew it was irreversible, and I dealt with it, because you had far too many burdens in the first place, and I loved you.

And now it's cold. And now it's dark. And now you are not here.

And, and, and. There's always an addition. I'm sorry for this, and that. I did it for this and that. I want you to live, and be happy.

What the fuck was I there for, otherwise? Moral support was out the window, pleasures beyond my comfort were in the sea far away, and help on absolutely anything was out of the question by your standards.

And you wouldn't leave me alone. You didn't stop once and consider me what I always told you I was, what I always thought myself as. You ignored my crying and tugging of your shirt, sobbing "Can't you see I'm just a burden? Why don't you just put me on the street and save yourself. I'm a lost cause."

"I'm sorry" is such a cliché statement and I hate it. I would tell you to never say I'm sorry, if I was never allowed to say I'm fine, now. I'd say a lot of things, I guess. Funny how you see all your regrets, all your flaws and mistakes and things-you-could've-done-but-didn't… it's funny how you see them from this point of view, and you miss. You find regrets you shouldn't even have. I miss you. I regret it, despite knowing it was the final option. I know it only put more burdens on you, and-

…I'm sorry I killed myself.