As much as I write about how breathtakingly gorgeous our young love was, I despise the person you are, or who you try to be. I’m willing to believe that this is some act, some role-play and that you’ll admit it was a stupid joke. I despise the way that you neglected all of my affection towards you, even though you couldn’t stop talking to me. You didn’t ‘just’ leave, you shook the ground and earth to make it look like I made you leave. You turned the tables to set yourself free from the guilt that stroke upon you. I recognize you in the bitterness of my morning coffee, the one that looked so good. Cause that’s the whole point isn’t it? You made it look so fucking good. You made it look like I meant something to you, whilst you we’re just messing around. As a bored child you looked for something entertaining in that rotting life of yours. You rot with al the compost of dying flowers, the ones that ‘they’ gave you, your lovers. Your heart must be deteriorating throwing lovers away as if they were skipping stones. Fine. End up alone. End up with a list of blocked numbers because you couldn’t handle talking it through. You were such a brave girl but dear god you knew how to ignore your problems. I still despise you for that.