I don’t forgive you. I thought I did, but I don’t.
I don’t forgive you because you lied to me.
You looked me dead in the eyes and told me you were in love with me, but needed to be alone – that, much to your dismay, you weren’t ready to be with anyone. And, so, I whole-heartedly believed you.
But here I am, just two short weeks later, reeling over the fact you think you are madly in love with someone else and realizing that I saw the signs all along. It wasn’t until after the night we hung out with her that you told me you were “worried about us”. It wasn’t until I saw her name popping up on your phone that I knew something was wrong. Why couldn’t you have just been honest? While it would have hurt like a bitch to know you would rather be with her than me, it would have saved me a shit ton of embarrassment.
I’ve spent the last two weeks assuring my friends and family (and myself) that you truly cared deeply for me, while, in actuality, I was just caught in your vast web of lies. This web you weaved somehow filed me with hope – hope that we would someday find each other again.
What a fool I was for believing you – for believing that you loved me. It’s pretty scary, no, FUCKED UP that you knew no one had ever said those three words to me before and that you chose (after we had agreed not to say them for a “long” time) to say them while breaking my heart.
When I read the poem where you chose to profess your undying “love” for a girl who you barely know (though did you really know me well enough to say those words?), I became more enraged than I ever have in my entire life.
I wanted to call and berate you until you didn’t want to be alive anymore. But then I realized, why give you the satisfaction of knowing how much your actions have affected me? You obviously have no regard for anyone but yourself, so I doubt it would have done much anyways.
Listen. I am writing this for the sole purpose of letting you know that I never want to see your fucking face ever again and, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind if you died a slow and painful death. If Satan is real, he definitely inhabits your body and soul.
Poor thing (her, not you). I truly feel bad for her. She has no fucking clue what she’s getting herself into and I can only imagine the new web you are spinning, what lies you must be telling her. The poems, sweet words, CDs, gifts, they’re all apart of the giant scam that is you.
Good luck with her, though! Just know that, because you are not happy with yourself, no one person will ever bring you happiness (I’m finally realizing that now) and, in a matter of time, this will crash and burn – just like the countless ones before.
I, however, must thank you for allowing me to waste only a mere month of my life on you. You revealed how great of a piece of shit you are so quickly! So, thanks!
And thank you for making me realize that I need to make a man earn my trust instead of just allowing him to sweet talk his way into it (like you did).
So, Mr. Poet: good luck, good riddance and please, please go fuck yourself.