I hate to admit it, but there’s no way around it – you broke me, and there was nothing clean about it. I think you might be proud of the shape you’ve left me in, because it means you were right about the mess we would be in. You’ve called all the shots from the first moment that you kissed me; now there’s nothing left but carnage, and I’m the only one who’s missed me.
I hate to admit it, but there’s no way around it – you broke me, and there was nothing clean about it. But you forget I’ve been here before, left for dead and damn the price; my whole life’s led up to this, and if I made it once, I suppose I’ll make it twice.
Anger is equal parts of love and hate in a combination that doesn’t always equate with the facts placed before us. It makes no sense to coax words from your mouth if this is pointless to you now, but still I’m trying. I’m tired of justifying silence that never belonged; would it help if I said
we were both wrong? I’ll tell you I forgive you for ignoring my birthday if you tell me you’ve finally learned how to use actions to support what you say, and I’ll promise I’ll try to stop rewriting history if you will just admit you miss me.
There is a dumbing down of love when I think of you – thoughts reduced to base emotions, memories that bind me in place even after you left me behind. And it’s true, though I know you would deny it: you are the one who left by choosing not to stay, by choosing not to choose me. It is your loss, but somehow, I am still the one who lost. There is a dumbing down of love when I think of you, and so I simply try not to think of you.