6th may 2013.

dear cam,

i hate going to the ice rink, but i can't not, so i guess i should tell you where i am now, i'm at the rink, sitting on the side. their is no game or practice going on, it's actually completely empty.

I'm wearing my letter man jacket, but i'm still cold.

you died in you're letter man jacket, the thought makes me sick i just want to sink down.

I don't want people to see me, i don't want them to walk into the dark room and see me hunched over this stupid little book scribbling my feelings down miserably.

but they can, because i'm here, in this moment and i'm living and breathing and a person that writes to a dead guy about hating myself and feeling guilty and about the kid that nobody knows about and i think that if you we're still alive and could read these you would ask me to go see somebody,

but in the most sincere way you could because that's how you are, cam, you know.

maybe i would see somebody again, maybe i wouldn't. I'm not sure, cam.

do you get bored of me always saying maybe and i don't know, if i was you i would get bored of me, i repeat things over and over again, just in different ways.

i have a lot more to tell you cam, they spin around in my head, but it's harder to put them down into words, when i spell them out they look crude and harsh, like me

so i should go, letters shouldn't be long anyway.