March 20th, 2018; 1:02am.
I’ve gotten myself wrapped up in all the wrong things, especially at this hour. Knowingly playing myself into digging deeper into my scabs when they have finally started to heal. I’m not really sure what to think of it.
I lay in bed tonight, thinking of you. Of how I wasn’t able to process our relationship before the next one started. The time frame was almost overlapping, from the aggressiveness and pain from you, to an unfamiliarity of kind and genuine. I’m still with him.
You gave me a love that was completely fictional- that was all made up in my mind to believe you actually cared for me. I was so caught up in your mess, you started to destroy me. Piece by piece, little by little, my heart and mind and soul began to ditirierate without acknowledgement. And one day, you were gone.
Our love was the kind you see in movies- not the sappy successful ones where you kind of throw your hair back and laugh in a truck into the sunset. No, this was like the mysterious quiet boy who lured you into his pit of absolute darkness and pain, while mistaking it for love. It wasn’t real. It never really was.
I never found closure. You didn’t love me, nor did you use me for sex. It’s almost as if you needed someone to manipulate for your own amusement. For someone so stupid to give you everything left in their poor poor soul just to laugh and leave. Where you give and they take, they yell and you cry. There is no happy ending.
I’m thinking of you tonight. Not every night. Your damage is left scared beneath my skin.
The hurt never really goes away.