I wrote you a letter to tell you I'm sorry: for the scar on your arm, but even more so for the scar on your heart.
I wrote to tell you how much I miss you, love you, cry for the agony I know you're going through.
Never sent, I found the letter neatly folded in an unmarked envelope a week ago. I don't think I ever meant to send it. You see, distance and time have finally let me see that I'm not the one who put that scar on your heart, nor did I cause the one on your arm.
I didn't tear the letter, or put it in the burn pile in my anger.
I tucked it away in the back of my diary, and have been slowly writing a new letter. I don't want an apology. I don't want you to crawl to me, or grovel, or threaten again to hurt yourself. I just want to know... why did you hurt me? Even now, I think about you daily. I think I loved you more than anyone else I've ever known. Back then, I'd have readily jumped between you and a bullet. Why would you hurt me for that?
I hope someday I will have the courage to send you this letter. And I hope you will be man enough to answer me.