I am not writing about you again because
really, it was your loss. No excuses for you, all you had to do
was be someone else and how fucking easy was that?
Do you know how many times I faked a laugh so that you'd shut up and kiss me?
Everyone looks at you now, and they tell me I've won
but one who strives to win is gone, and by nature is a loser.
By trash-talking, we keep you alive with our words. Who cares if gossiping
puts me in hell because I was dead to you long ago, death by your clueless carefree.
I wrote as many words as I shed tears over you, usually along the themes of
Longing, but let's be real now. Life was unglamorous too often; misunderstood,
stifled, brooding, and alone in your bed. You could touch me, but never my mind.
I am not writing about you again because I am done feeling sorry for myself;
I spent nine months being in love with being in love at first sight
and I am not about to make it ten.