Letters No. 2
You said that you missed me today.
That’s the thing about you. It’s always pretty words whispered like kisses, tempting the warm embrace of my comforting sentiments. But all you are is words. You’re a god-damn tease, and I’m tired.
You’re drunk and there was drama between you and her again, and so now you’re here and you’re telling me things – I miss you, you’re my favorite, I love you, you’re the best – and I just. I don’t know anymore. I want to hate you; sometimes I do. But mostly I just want to stop feeling so used.
Part of its my fault, I let you do this to me, I let you make me feel these emotions. Because I’ve been there every second of your hurt, every little minor pain. I care too much, and you…don’t. You like to think you do, but when I had a breakdown and almost tried to kill myself you dropped me like last year’s news – you thought my distance was because I was looking to start drama. You know what? Fuck you for that. You still think that whole incident was about you. You think the entire world is about you.
You can’t just go around taking turns at using us and then switching to the next girl when the first one gets annoyed. Yet here you are. Here you go. And here I am after it all, still letting you pull this shit. What does that make me – the girl who stays friends with the guy who makes her want to die? A masochist, maybe. You don’t even deserve these words.
You make me feel like I don’t matter. I wish I’d never met you.