Two years. Two years, gone. I should’ve fucked off when he messed around with someone else. I should’ve ignored it when he said my name. This is personal, yes, with names and everything, but how many Juans and Ashleys are there in the world? Maybe he’ll see this, maybe not. Probably not. If you do, don’t you dare contact me, say anything about posting private things. Private things was her posting hickeys and bruises that got you caught. Private things are things that are now gone and trying to be forgotten. I’m tired of hurting. I’m so fucking angry, because I was hurt and broken before and now I’m just dust. I’m dust, and it’s the kind that I talked about in that one piece I wrote that I wanted you to read, and that you never will. You didn’t want to do anything to take me out of your life? You wanted to be honest? Ironic, because how often did you really lie to me? Then again, life likes to fuck me over with every ounce of irony it can find. You know, you didn’t talk to me on my birthday, you were ignoring the question I asked you the previous night. I have no one left. I have no one else. Everyone, every single fucking person I ever love and care about fucks me over somehow and somehow I’m not used to it. I’m just done hurting, I’m done opening up to people. I’m done, because it’s been proven over and over again that I’m not enough and never will be. You were my best friend. You were my only person. You know, I hope you see everything I did for you and you hurt. I hope you hurt half as much as I’m hurting right now.