Fuck you for making me like you. Fuck you for acting like you wanted to hang out with me. Fuck you for talking to me like you did and telling me all that stuff and making me think I was something.
Fuck you for using me. Fuck you for making plans with me and then just ignoring me. Fuck you for blowing me off and then leaving me dangling until you’re in a shitty enough mood you have to throw me a bone so I can fluff up your ego. Fuck you for not saying a damn thing.
Fuck you for getting my number, for acting like you wanted to see me again.
Fuck you for making all these imaginary plans about us watching this, us going here, us doing this and that when you had no intention of it ever happening. Fuck you for saying next time you’ll stay. Fuck you for acting like there would be a next time when you’d already decided there wouldn’t.
Fuck you for making me cry when you aren’t even worth a sniffle. Fuck you for making me wonder why you would even like me. Fuck you for making me think I wasn’t good enough.
I’m a real person. I feel real things, I have real thoughts. I’m not just a bubble of text on your phone, I’m not just something warm to hold onto when you’re drunk and there’s nothing else around.
Fuck you for making me write this. Fuck you for infecting my thoughts, for making my brain swell imagining scenarios where I got to tell you off and rub it in your face that I don’t fucking need your approval. Fuck you for making me hold back because I was so scared of screwing up in front of you.
I told you it was okay if you didn’t like me. I told you that so you could be honest with me. All you had to do was say you weren’t into it. All you had to do was tell me you were just drunk and you weren’t feeling it and that could have been it. I could have dealt with that, I could have understood that. I could have accepted that—I’ve been accepting it my whole life.
Did you think I couldn’t handle it? Did you think you were such a bonafide catch you thought me hearing I hadn’t landed that ten-foot marlin would send me spiraling over the edge? Bitch, please.
I’ve forgotten more about rejection than you’ll ever know. Rejection I can handle. Rejection I understand. But you didn’t reject me. You didn’t tell me you didn’t want to see me, you didn’t say you didn’t want to talk to me. Instead, you did talk to me. You did ask to see me. You did kiss me, and then you stopped. You cut things off for no reason—at least no reason you ever shared with me.
So fuck you, dude. Fuck you for it all.
