To the boy who thought he was a man—
It started in autumn, and God, I wish it had ended before it even began.
You stumbled into my life when I was already bleeding, and instead of being a balm, you were the blade. You came with your fake charm, your fake feminism, your fake deep talks, and I, foolishly, gave you the benefit of the doubt. I gave you my time, my energy, my body, and my heart—all while you sat there, proudly saying you’d “never fall in love with me.” And I stayed. Like an idiot, I stayed.
You weren’t broken. You were selfish. And I wasn’t a fixer—I was your emotional dumping ground, your convenience, your soft spot to land when the world didn’t kiss your ego enough. I gave you softness, and you responded with silence. I gave you depth, and you gave me disrespect. I gave you space to feel, and you used it to flirt with ghosts from your past. Letters from your ex? Seriously? That should’ve been my final straw, but no—because I was still holding onto the hope that somewhere in your hollow chest, a heart might beat for me.
But let’s talk about what you really are.
You're the kind of man who doesn’t force a girl- but chips away at her boundaries until she’s too tired to say no. You didn’t honor my consent- you wore it down. That isn’t love, or passion, or closeness. That’s manipulation in the shadows.
And while we’re being honest—your obsession with body-shaming? With making stereotypical jokes and trying to pass them off as “funny”? That’s your desperate little ego showing. You couldn’t handle someone with real beauty, real depth, so you had to make me question mine. Even in the most vulnerable moments, you found a way to humiliate. Saying shit about my body, making me feel like I wasn’t enough—like the issue was me, like I wasn’t built “right.” You know what? Screw that.
You weren’t worthy of any part of me—not my mind, not my body, not even my conversation.
You don’t get to sit with the best parts of me anymore. You don’t get to revisit my kindness in your memory like a soft lullaby when your guilt finally wakes up. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t know better. Because you did. And you chose to do nothing. No apology, no regret, not even a fucking text.
Let me be clear: I hate how you made me feel. I hate that you had that kind of power. And most of all, I hate that even now, your name sometimes echoes in my head like a bad song I can’t skip. But you don’t get credit for that. That’s not love—that’s trauma. And I'm healing from it without you. So no, I don’t want you back. I want my damn self back. And I’m taking her, piece by piece, without ever needing your sorry ass again.
Enjoy your mediocre life, your hollow ego, and whoever is next in line for your circus of mind games.
Because this? This is where I stop clapping.
ellievsbear
gummygunk
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass