Mom.
What should I say? I'm going away, I'm running away, and I don't exactly think you could stop me.
This letter is pointless, I know it is, and I don't even know why I'm writing it, perhaps just because it doesn't feel right, leaving you without one single word, without a trace.
Why am I leaving, you're asking? That's easy to guess, I believe you know that already. I often have the horrible, strong feeling that you actually wish I left your house and your life, since the very beginning.
I'm going away because I hate you, you know.
I've hated you for so long I don't even know. I don't remember a time of my life I lived without feeling hatred.
I hate you because you never, ever told me that I am a good boy, you never hugged me tight like everyone else does with their children. I hate you because you never cared that much about me, and you never smiled to me, not lately you didn't. You never woke me up touching my cheek gently, whispering hey or stuff like that, something a mother would say. I hate you because now that I'm leaving, you will cover your mouth with your hand and you will cry your eyes out. You will sob a little bit and then you will go back to the living room, trying to sink every memory you have in a see made of beer, or in a field made of pot. I hate you because tomorrow you won't even remember that I ever existed, that once upon a time I was your son.
I hate you because you might be laughing at me right now.
But most of all, I hate you because you will kiss me goodbye with a dragged, shuffled, bored bye, perhaps not even that. I hate you because you won't even know what's happening.
I hate you, that's it.
I don't know what else I should say, mom.
I wish you were different, I wish I was different. I wish I was a normal person, with normal problems and that you didn't always look at me with that sick, sympathetic glace.
That's not much, is it?
Maybe too much to ask.
Jimmy.