You think I’ve forgiven you? I have not, not even close. I want you to feel real heartbreak and endlessly cry because of it. Sob, scrub your tears and punch the wall. Once, and then a second time, because the tingling in your knuckles feels nothing compared. The shatters that are inside me is nothing compared.
I do not care that it will do me no good. I want you to feel it, for a change. The piercing pain that darkens your brain and makes you forget to breath.
If he was here, he’d say: “you don’t think I’m crying, you don’t think it broke me.”
No. Not yet it didn’t, because you haven’t let it; you haven’t thought about it enough, fully absorbed it. You are still in your world of hidden endings. Of passing without acknowledgment. Of cowards and roughnecks.
Back in June, those words meant nothing. Your answer to my question believe me, meant nothing. The truth was everything. You could have said 2 girlfriends, you could have said 25 whores. It wouldn’t have mattered. But you lied. That’s what mattered. There was one tiny morsel of a moment when you could have shown me honesty like I showed you throughout. But you didn’t, you made up a number, sat up, silent – ready to put your clothes back on. Hoping I wouldn’t ask more questions. Like always. Just like everyone else in your obnoxious little world.