After it was over, I sat there on the floor by myself, with my knees curled up to my chest, as violent sobs racked my entire body. It was never love.

It wasn’t even love on that first night when you met me at that party. It was never a sweet first and romantic kiss, but a rough and domineering takeover.

It wasn’t love when you never called me back. It wasn’t love when you made me feel like a burden every time I initiated a conversation. It wasn’t love when you made feel dumb and insignificant. It wasn’t love when you tore me down, to build your own self up.

It wasn’t love when you made me change the shirt I was wearing because it showed off too much of what you said that you “owned.” It wasn’t love when you yelled at me for choosing to hang out with my friends, over you. It wasn’t love when you ordered me to get your permission before I left my house.

It wasn’t love when you lashed out at me for not answering the phone only once. It wasn’t love when you called me over and over again and sent me nasty text messages while I was at work and couldn’t talk on the phone. It wasn’t love when you screamed at me threw the phone telling me that I better never ignore your call again.

It wasn’t love when you cheated on me with other girls behind my back, and then lied straight to my face about it. It wasn’t love when you got angry at me for not believing you or when you made me feel like I was crazy for wondering where you were.

It wasn’t love when you grabbed my hand and squeezed it as hard as you could because another guy was talking me. It wasn’t love when you told me to never speak to another man without your permission ever again.

It wasn’t love when you called me a slut out jealousy that should have never been present. It wasn’t love when you called me useless, and it wasn’t love when you told how hard I was to love. It wasn’t love when you told me nobody else could ever love me.

It wasn’t love, and it was never love, but the scariest part about it, is that I thought that it was.