To my first love,
I hate that I know your routine.
That you you’re busy until 5:40 every Tuesday and Thursday. I hate that I know where you work, that school stresses you out, that you’re torn between two jobs, and that you can never decide what to do with your hair.
I hate that you’re the last person that told me they loved me, and I hate that I can still feel your unwanted touch. The physical pain you caused me. The pain you caused me because I let you, because I thought you were my best friend. Because I love you.
I loved you.
But you don’t love me, you don’t respect me, and what happened a few weeks back wasn’t my fault.
I’m still coming to terms with it all.
Please let me forget, let me fall out of love.