Dear Writer’s Block,

It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not your fault that you never have anything to say. It’s not your fault if you choose to sit staring at me, stoic and silent with nothing to contribute whatsoever.

I’m the one who keeps thinking that you’ll change, a foolish thought—I know. I know you’ll never turn into the person I want, no—need, in my life. I want someone creative and invigorating, someone who inspires me.

I am silly to let you keep crawling back to me, knowing you will never be those things. I guess I’m childish in that manor.

I sit at my computer waiting with bated breath, praying that you will break the silence. I tell myself each time I sit down that this time will be different—you’ll open your mouth and a stream of poetry will flow out to my waiting ears. I’ll throw my arms around you and kiss you, tell you I’ve been waiting my entire life for this moment.

I keep telling myself this yet the only thing you never fail to do is disappoint, to smash my feeble hope of change like a mirror—leaving me staring into my shattered reflection.

I’ve tried. I’ve hoped (both to no avail). I finally realize another minute spent dwelling on you is a moment lost to me—a moment I can never get back.

I’m sorry. It’s over now.

Goodbye.