well, that didn't work: an autobiography

untitled

There are so many things I want to say to you.

Some days, I want to tell you how much I miss you. Your smile, your eyes, your laugh, your kisses and hugs, and the way you made me feel like nothing could go wrong.

But, something went wrong.

Some days, I'm angry. I'm angry at myself for letting you control me for so long, and for letting you do things that I wanted to save myself for. I'm angry at you, for taking advantage of me. I didn't know better, and you did, but you did it anyway. I was so naive. Poor me.

Some days, I'm just sad. The night you did that to me, I had a panic attack about you leaving me. You didn't reply because you were with her. I thought you were with your family. Shows some loyalty, doesn't it? 

Later that night you told me I was yours, wherever we were and no matter what. I should've seen through that bullshit.

Sometimes, I wonder where I went wrong. I am so loving and forgiving, and I often forget that other people aren't the same. I wonder what I did wrong, because even though it was YOUR fault, it just sounds like you blamed me.

You ruined me, plain and simple. I don't know when I'll ever forgive you. I sure as hell haven't started forgiving since I found out.

I don't know what to say to you when I see you. "Hi" seems too nice, but "I want to rip your fucking throat out, you motherfucker" sounds too vulgar.

It always seems like I'm the one apologizing for what you did. I think maybe it's time for you to take responsibility for your actions.

I might not know what to say about this, and you, and her, and her, and all the other "her"s, but maybe nothing is the best thing to say. 

--silence (n.s)