The things I would say, if I could. What I would have told you, in words you could understand; in great, bloated detail, the kind of letter one writes but never sends, but what if I had sent It? Words that may have saved your life, at least figuratively, and maybe if you had seen it all written down, their power staring you in the face, the way your words’ power stared me in the face that time I was sitting at a desk in my boutique hotel room on Seymour Street in Vancouver, shivering with chill and anger, then maybe those words would sink in and emblaze themselves, and you’d think of me again, or at least provide me with a sense of closure, or a sense that you cared about me somewhat, even at the end, for in one regard, I cared about you, even though you ripped my vital organs apart with your bared teeth that day. There are so many things – too many things – that hang in the air and coat my skin like frostbite, and they started that day. Maybe they didn’t even start with my “spew of hatred”. Maybe they started during hot summer days, or that time I was at the top of the world – my world – that other February day a year prior; the day of the concert, the day everything changed, the day it was sunny and warm for a February day in British Columbia, 12 degrees and cloudless, and I couldn’t even see my breath, and my coat felt too warm around my chubby shoulders. Maybe that was the day you made your choice, and your choice has been colouring you and me and us and them – all of them – the sweet people, the impartial bystanders, the ones who had nothing to gain or lose. I would have told you the words we’re all thinking, but we’re all too afraid to speak for undisclosed, unspoken reasons. Why are we afraid? Because deep down, everyone is afraid of those words, and words are to be feared more than anything else. But I would have said them, if I could.