To The Magician (P3)

Dear Magician,
I remember how you asked me exactly an year back to never stop writing, and I, I looked at you and told you that if you’d ever leave, I will have more reasons to write and you told me that my poetry shouldn’t be wasted on you, as if it were a choice.
I told you that I breathed when you weren’t there, and I will breathe when you won’t be here and you said nothing, but kissed my head. You knew how my love was strong but uncontrollable.
You knew how I could use my hands to punch a wall and break it down if I had to, and how I could use those same hands to choke me down to death if I had to.
For some days, I reminded myself to survive. On my good days, I gulped whiskey down my throat. On my bad days, I was immovable almost as lifeless as a corpse. I slept on strangers’ bedrooms for nights and nights and in the morning I banged your door and you looked at me as if I was something to be embarrassed of. I told you how I won’t return each time, but I ended up on your door and all you gave me was your pity.
I was a mess, I knew. You made me so, you should know.
A few months back, you told me again that you read my writings and if I am still writing and that I should never stop writing. So, I started breaking the bones of my hand until it became useless. I started ruining myself with everything until all my innocence was destroyed. I began filling myself with destruction until it was hard to empty it again. You, you saw everything and never came to say a word. I realized how you never cared at all. I realized that all the things that you said were just fancy things that people like you say before breaking the heart of people like me.