Dear Ursula,

You cared too much for a past I was able to leave behind. You angered me with each word of gossip you excitedly spewed forth before me. You made me feel ill just being in your company. You did stand up for me, though, and I doubt it was out of friendship, but whatever the reason why, I thank you. You taught me self-confidence and how to have a good time—but no one seems to have ever told you the party is over. Why were we so afraid to take things further? Why did you sporadically stop talking to me?

You had such fleeting ambitions. You were so beautiful, too, though. I had to be with you wherever you would go. How could companions be so unfamiliar? You knew nothing about me—nothing fundamental. You consumed my patience like it were your unrationed wine. You could never manage to tear me apart like you could with so many others, but you tore my heart a little more every time you misunderstood my morals. I think you did these things because you had to struggle for attention in your large family. You lacked substance but knew nothing but substances—that is what scared me. I learned how to break a heart from you—I watched you do it to so many. I hope you find some depth.