Every day I pen letters for you with my enchanted tears at the midnight stroke.

All I ever ask from you is a little bit of true kindness,
not a facade of kindness.

 
I desire the gem of trust,
not a dagger studded with the gem of trust.

I sing to you to record me in your life's cassette,
not push me into the recorded cacophony of my mistakes.

I beg you to embrace my flaws,
not regard me as a trash bin. 

I hanker to mirror the shade of the folks you care about,
not remind me of the dissonance I was. 

My eagerness for you peek, rivulets of emotions for you. But my rivers have dried, for you have never caressed me like the sky's fond touch for the waiting rivers every year.

You never cared. 

You never read my letters.
Instead, my letters grace your dustbin.

One day will come when you grovel at my feet to return those letters.
It will be too late.

Neither will you find the damp letters of my nightly tears nor will you see me.

For your own ego has gnawed both away.