An old letter that received no response.

I apologize for your grievances but I could not help but to mourn alongside you. You were never talking to me, but I was always talking to you. You made death look so new and stylish, profoundly chic and sexy. I’d never live up to you, but I was always stuck trying.
I dwelled on your nostalgia with these charred and blackened lungs. I felt myself so cancerous and handsome with this run down soul, so susceptible to your desolate interaction.
You’d leave me empty forever.
Maybe you’d never fallen in love with a manipulative son of a bitch, but I had for years and I’d always been left trying in this one sided platonic compassion. I was always left. You were always leaving me behind.
You were always, always resisting me.
Maybe it had been months, days, probably years since you’d stopped loving me, or maybe you simply never had and I was left as this oblivious fool (but no, I’d always known). I’d moved on, traveled along devoid of your expired compassion, and after a moment or hour or month I’d adjusted to a life habitual to living without you. For years you’d left me dejected and hollow and you’d never needed me. When you left, you never came back. You’d never needed me and I was a fool for existing on the opposite side with this undying platonic adoration.
You’d always isolated yourself from me.
You’d always made a fool of me.
I’d left you alone and we had formulated separate paths and maybe yours was smooth and joyous like mine, but otherwise I’d never know because our paths were parallel and rejected a perpendicular notion. You always ran further without me. Maybe I always held you back.
When I’d left you behind, you ran and ran for freedom and my admonishment meant nothing. Perhaps it never had. Was it so difficult to profess the desire for conversation with someone who was now a figure of my past? Even a prominent one? I was not a decaying mess any longer and I confess I was afraid you would remain a vulture overhead, striving for the caustic fruit of my existence, making sure I was deteriorated amidst the gravel. Though you never took the time. You took flight along the skyline and never paused. You ingested the fruits of my labor without hesitation, leaving me crooked and speechless as I saw the nectar of my struggle dribble down the smooth of your chin. My effort was what fueled you, created you into this girl who made my defeat only passive with that crooked smile adorning your gaunt face and your lips stretched into worn calluses.
I was a fool. I kept growing this fruit for you, and you continued to eat it. And thus I began to wither.
But this separation was not a solitary commodity; instead it became an emotional catharsis and I existed without turmoil. I never expected you to understand. As two different minds, we clashed. For those twelve years I was always brimming with affection for you and stood ready to defend you regardless of cause, but you never acknowledged it and I could never tell what you were thinking.
You were always isolating yourself from me.
You never wanted my defense or admonishment. And over the years I was a victim of your slander and became a model of human depreciation. I wanted you to understand the infliction when you so cared for someone in an unconditional manner. My kindness wore thin amidst the depleted communication, but I was always willing to admit when I made a mistake. It wasn’t a matter of pride and some swell of arrogance, but instead voluntarily admitting the error of my ways was the easiest. I had nothing to prove or to hide.
But really, I always felt like I had something to prove to you.
Very rarely did I ever feel like I was ever enough for you. Often, I think most of you pushed me away.
There were instances when love and compassion expired, but in a friendship the affection continued to flourish, though as high school approached I felt I was the one left with admiration and adoration.
What on earth did I ever mean to you?
By the end of middle school, were you done? I was so easily fooled. Perhaps the mismatch in our communication was most ailing. Maybe you were one of those people who kept to yourself for fear of rejection and drowned in introverted tendencies, or maybe it was nothing so complicated and you wanted free of me.
Though, outside influence aside, I was that eccentric girl who has done her best to be there for you since first grade. When would it ever be enough? This hostility was only derived from frustration and the communication (or lack thereof), but my tolerance was building (however, wearing away). Out of respect, dignity, or nostalgia, would it be so difficult or sacrilegious to acknowledge a ghost of your past, the diminishing apparition who had applied her best efforts (but failed)? It was never my duty to ask much these days, but for respect of what once was, please arise and do what may be best for me, even if it is an inconvenience for you. For years I’ve intended to do what’s best for you, and though you may be humored by the statement, recall how many years I stood by your side, foolishly or adamantly striving for your best. It’s so frustrating to love someone but to receive nothing in return; no signification of affection or even communication. Maybe you know what it feels like to love and to receive no phone calls or acknowledgment. And if you have any inclination of the pain, swelling and thriving, you wouldn’t be doing this. I know you would never sit down and write to me, but I am for you. I’m taking the time to speak rationally and act as an adult. And I know you won’t write to me, but please act with some fraction of dignity and respond to a person who is dwindling from your future. I do not speak unrealistically, for I am not asking much. But if you can sit down and speak to me rationally, respectfully perhaps, it would be appreciated. This is two giant pages long and if I receive nothing of you, I will be appalled. That wouldn’t be any girl I know, but instead nearly inhuman.