To Whom It May Concern:
I am my own critic, as I examine the parchment you wrote last week.

You swore your love,
devotion,
admiration.

You told me you loved me.
These broken thoughts--
These feelings--
Written down on paper.

Crumpled paper,
Tossed on the floor.

My soul is a worn-out shawl--
You wore it for your own entertainment.

You exchanged me at the Build-A-Babe Workshop for an illiterate bimbo who can't read her own name.

I thought you were different,
Interesting,
Spectacular.

My stems and leaves,
Protruded from the pot,
Outstretched,
To embrace you.

The letter,
Your memories,
Burned.

Forever.

You are the lie written across these pages.

Forever.

Nevermore will I sacrifice my well-being for your sanity.

Best Regards,
Your Conscience