I think about you now, and I'm angry.
...though I have no right to be...
It doesn't stop me from wanting to say things to you that I know will hurt...
...and I know just where to touch to make you bleed.
It's not really you I'm angry with...okay, that's not true...I am angry with you...
...but I'm angrier with myself.
I'm furious with that part of me that let you worm your way into a position where I would do anything for you...
...even things I know I'll hate myself for.
My days are bleak, and filled with a constant flood of anxiety and self-doubt.
My nights are a black hole of loneliness, and not even my old friend whiskey can numb me to it anymore.
...so I grasp tightly the few threads of distraction I can find.
I won't do this anymore.
The perfect image I had of you in my head is ruined.
In a way, it's a relief.
You've been on that pedestal for far too long.
Now you walk amongst the other mortals, and your sway over me has diminished.
I don't want to be that girl anymore.
...I promised myself I would never be her again...
but I break all my promises for you.
Hating you would make it all so simple.
Letting a raging, angry fire burn bright in my chest would save me a lot more regret...
...I just don't think I have it in me.