chaka chaka

Stop it.

Only the both of us know what transpired and as time passes even that slowly fades from memory. Your version of events is not mine. And the truth disappears in the archive of a forsaken email account.

But.

Does it even matter? I know what I had to live with. What I had to deal with. How I bent over backwards and killed my ideals. My supposedly impossible and irrational ideals of black & white.

What is this for? A moot point. Oh, throw me a witty one-liner when my heart is bleeding all over the floor. I have no answer. I just know that you and text messages, well, they fuck with my blissful existence by reminding me of years of hell and self-doubt and fading sanity and tears and pain and lies.

Just let it fucking go already.

So fucking selfish. Even now it’s all about you you you and how miserable your life is. You brought this upon yourself. If you’re going to do something that you’ll regret. Just fucking don’t.

You have no idea what I went through putting the pieces of myself back together. Oh, it’s not that I imagine my life is sooooooo special and no one else has ever lived through this and worse. Nothing like that. It’s just that you would need a fucking heart to get it. And we all know how lacking you are in that department.

Mr. Messiah indeed. You wanted to “save” me? The little angry punk girl. Little punk bitch with issues. Stupid little miss. Guess what, you were not my crutch; you were my fucking disability.

Well, guess what, I’m now 10 times the person you’ll ever be.

And we both know it.