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You can trust me.
Had I known this meant I could trust you to keep secrets from me, as opposed to keeping secrets for me, I would’ve thought twice before letting you into my living room and into my head. I told you things that should’ve acted as a deterrent but instead I feel like they only promoted your promiscuity. I considered you a brother, but you saw me as a human tissue. You cried into my shoulder and I did my best to quiet you, calm you and comfort you, did not judge you for the mistakes you made. It was only when I was betrayed I saw that behind your superman mask hid a phony.
The feeling is mutual.
I should’ve known this was false sooner than I did. I harbored a respect for you that was NOT mutual which became quite clear when you swept all acknowledgment of my emotions under the rug. The last conversation we had was devoid of sympathy when a little bit of Splenda to sweeten the blow would’ve been appreciated. It was blunt enough to cause head trauma which I felt after I spent fifteen minutes crying in my best friends arms as she failed to comfort me. Luckily for her, all I really needed was a packet of Peanut M&Ms and a hug. We continued to laugh until I was in tears again which was a better painkiller than my double dose of Vicodin I was on for my sprained ankle.
You deserve better.
This is one of the biggest lies I’ve been told. I don’t deserve better. After all I’ve been through, I am so emotionally scarred it’d be like dating a metaphorical Rocky Balboa. I don’t deserve better because I’m a fucked up girl with a lot of weird quirks and even though I hear I’m fun to be around, I don’t deserve better. I’m as much a pain in the ass as the next lesbian, and I get attached pretty quickly. It’s no ones fault but my own but I try and blame the stars and justify my emotional fragility with astrology. It’s normal for an Aries to be like this…right?
It’ll change once you get to college.
Well it hasn’t. I’m still this socially awkward girl who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere so I try to fit in everywhere. I’m very aware of how I move because I’ve been told I often look like an ostrich with epilepsy so I strive for a simple ostrich. My mother said my single streak would end in college, and that boys would be tripping over themselves to pay for my dinner…it’s a shame I don’t wanna date boys. I still have the same rotten romantic luck. It’s kind of the story of my life.
You hear lies every day.
It’s up to you to believe them.
I choose to believe that I am not deserving of better, that things won’t change, that the feelings weren’t mutual and that I can’t trust you.
And it’s your own damn fault.
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You are a professional victim.
When you pull the trigger, you somehow find a way to make it seem like you were the on that got shot. Every time.
I am an expert shoulder, selling space to lean on in exchange for one thing: love.
Not romantic love, not even platonic love.
But the most basic form of love in which you put someone else before your own carnal desires.
Where before deciding something, you take the time to consider the possibility that it would hurt to hear of your actions.
Do you not understand the concept of cause and effect?
Cause: you told me I could rely on you for friendship and honesty, and so I gave time to you, knowing that one day, when I needed to, I would be able to run to you.
Effect: I wasn’t prepared for the sucker punch to my gut when I learned of your betrayal.
Cause: I told you I wasn’t upset, and that I had moved on. That the issue was virtually nonexistent.
Effect: you called me at 2 in the morning falsely accusing the cornerstones on which you built your solitude, trying to make my own sanity crumble.
Cause: we are done letting you play superman until you look in the mirror and see the only true villain worth fighting. And then you turn around and point your steely fingers at the very people you tried to save.
Effect: to be determined.
We aren’t sure where you’re headed, but one things for sure:
You’re going it alone.
It’s gonna be hard to cross all these rivers with all the bridges you’ve thrown Molotov cocktails at, but you’re tough.
I’m sure you know how to swim.
But I have a couple questions before you turn on your heel.
Did you do it out of spite?
Did you do it in a stupor?
Did you do it out of stupidity?
But most importantly, did you bury that secret scroll in the ears of everyone but me?
Because there’s a reason I had to hear from a messenger that was not sent by you.
There’s a reason I was the last to hear of the war being waged, even as the battle was brought to my front door.
I want you to know that I forgive you for the crimes you committed against me, as heinous as they may be.
But as for the treacheries against those who look out for me when my back is turned, for that, you will never be forgiven.
I want you to know that I wish you the best, and no ill will.
But if you ever come through my door again, do not expect the same amount of hospitality I graced you with.
You may tower over me, but let it be known that I am the bigger person.
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I feel like childhood around you.
I have that funny fuzziness in my head that would accompany eating too much sugar, I think I’m invincible even though I couldn’t get more vulnerable, and my eyes are wide with wonder and hope for the future.
You’re like that giant pile of mystery dirt in my backyard. I want to jump into you, but there’s always the risk that it’s infested with fire ants and I’ll spend the next few days regretting my decision.
But, much like my childhood, I never learn from my mistakes and so time and time again, I dive head first into the pile of dirt.
Were you good with a yo-yo when you were a kid?
Cause you’re really good at stringing me along.
You make walking the dog look like the easiest trick in the book…
Perhaps marionettes were more your style.
You yank my strings, making me do things I normally wouldn’t do if I had control over my limbs.
But like most kids, you probably got tired of your toys quickly.
You threw them to the side for newer, shinier things.
They played music and they lit up, but they were cheaply made.
One by one, your fancy toys broke.
And I’d find your fingers reaching towards me yet again.
You didn’t play with me…
You just played me.
I was a space filler between birthdays and booty calls.
When you needed attention but didn’t want to take anything off, I found you opening my toy chest, eyeing me, the only one left who had any respect for you.
I don’t think you understand the severity of this disease.
You’re addicted to newness.
You cycle through toys so quickly that it’s a wonder you remember any of our names.
Please don’t take this the wrong way, puppet master, but you’re kind of a toy-whore.
You play us, then toss us.
But why do you throw me to the side, but throw them away?
Why do you keep me around?
Do I remind you of too many childhood moments that illuminate your face with a smile not many get to see?
Or do I perpetuate your dwindling ego, keeping you afloat when you don’t even know how to swim?
Don’t be surprised if I pull a Pinocchio on you and walk away.