Castles in the Sky

˙⋆ I Want To Hate You (explicit) ⋆˙

It's hard not to look at the past two years,

and say "what a waste."

I want to call myself stupid

for sticking it through.

I used to write poetry when I felt these types of things,

but it feels like you took that too.

You took

and you took

and took

and took,

and then we called it quits.

Now my poetry feels stiff,

disjointed,

unfiltered, but impure.

It no longer flows in a heap

late at night.

It comes forced and awkward,

unnatural and treacherous.

It makes me want to hate you,

to write an angry, scrawled list of everything I don't miss.

1. The way you drive.

2. The way you talked yourself out of everything.

3. The way you never seemed interested in the things that brought me joy.

4. The way you always made everything about you.

5. The way you forgot everything so you'd mention it a hundred times.

6. The way you used everything as a fucking crutch.

7. The way you continuously gaslit me.

8. The way you twisted my emotions and lied through your teeth but couldn't see it.

9. The way you made me believe we stood a chance.

10. The way you wouldn't eat fucking anything.

11. The way you cried over the pettiest crap.

12. The way you wanted me to pursue you like a whore.

13. The way you couldn't make it twenty-four hours without mentioning a heart-related anything.

14. I need to stop doing this because it's not helping and it only makes me hate you which makes me hate my bitter heart.

You never deserved me, and it makes me sick that there was a time when I would have settled for you if you'd just said the right things.

I want so badly to hate you for what you did to me over the course of two years.

I refuse to use your name in this poem because it's not important and I can't bring myself to type the words because that means I have to look at them.

I wonder if you ever remembered that you gave me one of your first camp hoodies.

I'll never tell you that I gave it to my mom so she could throw it away.

I'll never tell you that I don't feel bad about it.

I'll never tell you that I hope you see the things I made and gifted to you and get punched in the gut because you let go of something beautiful...something that you will never have another chance with.

I'll never tell you that I hope you enjoy your little scrapbook of girlfriends.

I'll never tell you that I think that's a sick, fucked up idea.

I'll never tell you a lot of things because you don't deserve them. They aren't important. They don't matter anymore because you gave up on us a long time before I ever did.

You just had the words to make it feel like you cared.

I've always prided myself on my way with words, which is why it stung so badly to realize that you were the gifted one all along.

Somewhere, deep in my heart, I still wish you the best. But that comes with a laugh and a bittersweet warning to whomever God decides to one day pair you with. To her, I can only say that I hope you grow up before then.

It's a weird thing—writing poetry.

As soon as you release yourself from the rules and form, everything begins to blur together but you don't care.

Some would say this isn't a poem. Others may disagree. I don't care because this is whatever I need it to be, and nothing more.

These words have remained confined in my soul for far too long. I've wanted to write this a million times, but never started for fear of what it would make me feel or that it would be trash.

Maybe it is trash?

But maybe I no longer care what anybody else thinks of the poetry they were never meant to see.

Maybe I finally understand what Fritz really meant about the stories only meant to be told so that we can get through our intimate darkness.

He may have been wrong before, but I think the old man may have been right about this, at least now.