Risk ☣ m.c

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          Dear Erin,                     25.12.14

All I can say and ask is why? Why did you leave? Why did you break my heart? Why did you not tell me? Why did you overdose? Why?

I am shattered, broken. Your funeral is today, I'm not even sure if I should call it Christmas. I got a knock at my door halfway through writing the last letter. I opened the door to see your father, he seemed shocked and guilty. For god knows why. He was the one who told me of your passing. I was convinced that I would be your hero and save you, but I failed. I could of saved you, but I didn't. It is my fault your not here. I shouldn't of let you just walk away from me when we were sixteen. You would still be here, even maybe in my arms.

I don't know what to do anymore. I really just can't picture you gone. I know its unhealthy, but I sit out the front of my house waiting for you to pull up in your fathers pick-up truck in grey sweats and a white tank top, like you did the day you moved in when you were thirteen. Do you remember that day? You walked straight up to me and asked what football team I barracked for. When I told you I supported Sydney you hit me the hardest I've ever been hit on the arm and strictly told me that it had to be changed and you were going to convert me to Essendon. And I did, I changed my team just for you.

Mum wants me to see a therapist when we get to California. I don't want to go. I don't want to go to the therapy, nor California. I want to be right next to you, but you are dead. I have to get it through my thick skull that you are no longer here, but I can't. I want you here, I need you here.

I've got to go pull myself together for your funeral, but I'm not sure if I can do that. I'm crying right now writing this. If you were here you'd probably hit my arm and tell me to 'suck it up and stop acting like a pussy.'

God I miss the fuck out of you Erin.

Love Like Always,

                             Michael Clifford