You weren't good to me.
I know that now. Some days, I wish I'd known it then. But even if I had, would it have made a difference? Would I have had the strength to turn you out where you belonged?
I try to tell myself it doesn't matter that much anymore.
It's a lie. It matters even more now. I don't miss you, but I miss the familiarity of your special brand of misery. You carved my heart out and made me think I enjoyed every second of it.
I used to think you hadn't meant it.
But now I'm not so sure. The ways you twisted me and warped me are still so prevalent. Your hands are still wrapped around my brain and I want them gone, I want them off.
I don't think you care.
Actually, I know you don't. If you cared, you would never have done that to me. You would have been okay with what I asked. You would have stopped. You would have listened.
I was nothing to you but a toy.
You had your fun , but when you broke me, you discarded me for a new toy. Honestly, that was the best thing you ever did to me.
I blamed myself for what you did to me.
I thought I was being unfair to you, that I was asking too much of you. I thought that I was being the nagging girlfriend. I thought that I was selfish for not wanting your hands on me.
It only hit me now that you did something horrible to me.
I couldn't process it before. To me, I was just trying to make you happy. But the problem was that I'd already told you no. The problem was that you did it anyway.
For what it's worth, I hate you.
If it matters at all, you stole that from me. You were never entitled to anything I had. For what mattered to me, I hope you hurt like I have.