I was hurt. I wanted to be okay so bad, but being hurt by you felt like thousands of bees stinging my heart because it throbbed and pounded as I cried. You made me feel like the floor had fallen from underneath me into rubble and I was trying to keep myself from falling into that pile below.
I held in my feelings and I knew how lethal that could be, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that implosion was inevitable when it came to imprisoning all the things I needed to get off my chest.
All I could think about was how dark everything seemed, how deep everything seemed to cut, how sad the world really was.
My sorrow broke through my fake smile and my sadness shun bright like New York City at night. I exposed my weaknesses to everything I had ever put up a strong front for.
You ruined me.
You were nothing more than pieces of my broken heart. I became nauseous whenever I smelt your cologne on my bed sheets after you had moved out.
I loved you to the point of no return. I loved you excessively and I was too blind to notice you took me and my kindness and my need to please you for granted. That’s your loss, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.
It’s disgusting to think that the one person I thought would never hurt me did the most damage, but that’s the twisted part of love no one ever talks about. It’s not something someone can teach you. It’s something that you have to experience to understand.
You were my world and I put you on a pedestal thinking you deserved it and I was wrong and I hate that. I wanted you to be everything my life lacked and you ended up being the one thing I wish I could take back.