So here goes,
One last letter now. One last attempt to make sense.
Who have I been writing to? I’m not sure anymore.
What have I been trying to [bad word] 
It’s a mystery, I guess. Self-made secrecy.
Things get cloudy and now all these stories and
The [bad word] as an undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier.
So, which voice is this then that I’ve been writing in? Is it my own or his?
Has there ever been a difference between them at all?

I don’t know I don’t know.

One last desperate plea. One last verse to sing.
One last laugh track to [bad word] the comedy.
Have I been losing [bad word]  Losing sanity?
Or has it been fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me?
I know I knocked the table over because I watched the jar break
and I’ve been trying to repair it every single stupid day
But won’t the cracks still show no matter how well it’s assembled
can I ever just decide to let it die and let you go?

All my motives and every single narrative below reflects
that moment when it broke and will I never let it go
No matter what? Now I am throwing all the shards away,
discarding every fragment, and fumbling uncertain towards a Curtain call
that no one wants to happen,
that no ones going to clap for at all, but that still has to be.