To William

What could she say to you, what? That she sits at home drinking herself into a stupour, thinking of all the things wrong with her past? And of all the things he did and she did and never did, overanalysing what is now lost? Could she sit there and talk to you, massage and leave with you, climbing that mountain so high? And pretend to be someone else, a confident beauty or else show you her lost face and cry? Her scars are all thats left, to cover with sleeves and then lie about and fabricate her excuse. Would she let you in to that place deep inside where she perpetually tightens the noose? What right do you have to be so sure of yourself that through arrogance and charm she'd be yours? Just leave her in peace to be lost and escape if she needs to cower behind bloody doors. To Ol' Bill; at least I can hide mine, and I don't have the arrogance to use my integrity the same way you use your bank account. I ain't, and never will be, a notch on your bedpost.