Set yourself on fire.

I remember when you embarassed me at Thanksgiving.

Tonight the stars whispered your name. Tonight the stars missed your face.

I cleared the room for just you, but you never came.

And now all I've got is a passageway you told me to kept secret, and a handful of false I Love You's. I'm through with this, I'm through with you. I'm through with fucking metaphors.
(But that's what I said last week.)

You could have at least told me what I wanted to hear.

Yours Truly,
Hillary.