The first person I loved, he told me that I should slit my wrists and hope I die.
The second person I loved told me the reason I was so ugly to everyone is because I had hurt myself.
The third person I started falling for. She made a promise that she wouldn’t leave me. The day I was released from the hospital ward, was the last time I ever heard from her.
The fourth person I loved, she said she loved me back. I fell so hard and so fast. She didn’t love me the same way that I loved her. She left. I think she took a part of my soul with her that day.
The fifth, it wasn’t love. I was punishing myself, in a way. The only way someone would care about me was for sex. I felt wanted, so I gave in to what he wanted.
The sixth was more the idea of what could have happened. The possibility of me allowing my heart to heal and try again. Of course, the little bit of hope I allowed myself was trampled over. I can forgive but it still has left its mark on me.
Around number four was the point where I stopped saying those words to other people. My mom has cried and asked me why I can’t just say that I love her. She doesn’t know that those words are a curse to me. If I say it, or feel it, something bad will happen. I awkwardly shrug off the words when a friend occasionally says them to me.
Seventh, well. I don’t know. I find it hard to believe that anyone could care about me that way, so why bother, right? I am so empty and with each person that gives it to me, it ends up being violently ripped out of me, leaving a bigger void that there was before