Omittance
by Lylian
That night you called yourself stupid more times than you could count.
Stupid because crying wouldn't bring him back.
Stupid because you were never supposed to feel this way.
Stupid because the fragments left of your little heart were broken.
He never told you. You didn't know.
That night, though, that night you knew.
Myrtle. What kind of name was Myrtle?
It was a horrible name for a girl. It sounded wrinkled and antiquated.
He told a dead girl, but not you. A dead girl named Myrtle, who had round glasses and a whining voice, who cried every time someone spoke to her.
But not you. Never you.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.