I don't think you fuckin' get it. It tore me to pieces to walk away from you. To tell you to hate me because it'd be easier than accepting the fact that I'm capable of being loved. No, worthy of being loved. After a lifetime of never being enough to people I sold my soul to, I didn't know what it was like for someone to really love me. Not lust, not dying to get inside me, not own me from the inside out. But love. Actually love me. Like, let me find each shard of your beaten, battered, broken heart and clean up the messes they left behind love. Like, let me show the difference between making love and being fucked love. Like, my soul has known yours since we were still dust motes on a star love.
But you didn't know the words for love, and sometimes you were a little too rough,love, and I think you forgot how broken I really was because I picked up all your pieces and dropped my own because seeing you happy was more important than my own sanity. It took all I had to tell you I couldn't absorb anymore of you without dying, and I still can't let go. We're "friends" now and sometimes I let you hold me because your arms still feel like home even though they're a thousand miles away and they condemned me to hell last July. But, but I don't talk about that. We don't talk about that. In fact, we don't talk about much anymore because I'm too numb for conversation, or my emotions are too glossed over and gaudy and embellished with my try hard, don't-let-them-see-you're-hurting smiles.
And I still don't think you get it yet: just because I'm busy forgetting doesn't mean my self-inflicted wounds aren't still stinging.