It’s not all about you, except for the times that it is.

I will never love you again.

You didn’t believe me when I said that I didn’t hate you before, in that time in between, but I didn’t. You couldn’t seem to understand me when I said to you that the only thing that ever made me hate anyone, that ever made me unstitch someone from the fabric of my life was a very simple thing.

Don’t ever lie to me, I said simply. Clearly.

Don’t ever lie to me, and I won’t hate you. I’ll be sad, I’ll mourn your loss, but I won’t hate you.

You nodded like you understood- swore that there had never been a false word spoken. You, who lie to yourself so completely and so constantly that I know you will never be happy in your own skin for it. And I believed you, because love makes me blind.

Blind, deaf, dumb and stupid.

Trusting, and what you and everyone else has taught me is that is the worst thing a person can be.


But, sweetheart. Lies of omission are still lies, and they’re the worst sort. I didn’t ask, but you should have told.

Because if she wasn’t a thought in your head already sometime in late June, the heat of summer pressing against us as we argued and discussed and walked ourselves in circles…?

I’ll prostrate myself in front of you and beg forgiveness for the world to see.

Because you lie to yourself so constantly that I don’t know if you even see it. If you even know the truth of yourself the way I could see it so clear.

You’re better than what you’ve done to me. You’re better than what you do to yourself on a daily basis. So hide behind your booze, and your grand delusions, and your un-fucking-ending rhetoric and just watch this fall apart around you.

Karma’s a bitch. And it is, finally, your loss and not mine.


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