When you have done the things that you've done, all I can do is worry. Your words are haunting and beautiful yet I see no deeds to suggest you are sorry.

Your less beautiful words have foreshadowed my hitting the ground in most peculiar way. And I tell you now you will have reason to be sorry if it comes to bear.

Your actions are more than I can take. I've given you back to fate. You are filled with a depth of hate in this life - a hate and disregard for me, yourself and others, that gives me no reason to stay, to wait for you, for you to meet me at the door to tell me you are sorry; how sorry you really are. Sorry indeed. Even if you did, how could I ever believe what you say.

Your words, even in kindness, are nothing more than part of a peculiar pattern of abuse. It is more than I can take. You are more than I can take, Machiavelli.

Actions are everything.
Make a choice.
Not for me.
Not for us.
For yourself.