I don’t know why I am wasting even one more moment of my life on you. Coming back into my world unannounced, in the same demeaning and horrifically cruel way just shows you will be the same miserable man for years to come. I’m sorry about your mom. But you used this, against me.
In your sick and twisted mind, you’ve decided that because you can’t have me, no one can. That’s unfortunate though because I am a lovable person. You are not.
I don’t even wish you well anymore. I wish you would just stay the actual fuck out of my life. I thought I blocked you, I thought I cut every thread of your existence out of mine.
You feel like nails running down my back and slipping down and away from me. Trying so DESPERATELY to hold onto what ever piece of flesh that you can manage to grab from my body. I can’t see you do it because you are looking at the back of my head. I don’t want to see you. It is embarrassing for you to do what you are doing to me. I wish you would just let go, the scars of those nails digging into my back, sucking the life from me, those scars are always there.
The next person won’t have to create new scars, because the ones you’ve left behind are visible.
When you take the same path over and over and over, that path becomes deeper and stronger. When you claw your way back into my body, you not only illustrate that this is the same path you have chosen to take, but to also illustrate to yourself that you are never going to have me. You will continue to see the back of my head.
Because I will never turn around.
I will never allow you back in. Don’t for one godforsaken second believe otherwise.
I don’t ever want to see your name on my screen again.
It hurt my soul to see your name on my screen.
I said that to you to reopen those wounds again.
Reopening the pain and track marks from your nails tearing down the flesh of my back.
You have no right to take advantage of my kindness.
You have sucked out my oxygen one last time.
It shouldn’t have even happened this time.
My heart told me to block you and never see your name in my inbox again.
Why did I tell you that you have hurt me?
It’s clear that you don’t care.
You said you are the most fucked up person I’ve met. And honestly that’s a very difficult title to achieve in my life. But you know what? I think you’re right. I think that you want to control me like a poor little puppet because I was the only woman who loved you and honestly, I may only be that one who mistakenly loved you.
I am not sorry for that. I am not sorry for loving because this life is not worth living if I don’t allow myself to love. The only problem is that I loved when I was weak. When I was desperate and I needed someone to hold me, anyone honestly.
You were around, it was convenient. I was miserable, you were miserable. We shared in it. I knew it would never work long term with us, the moment I saw you have a mannerism that reminded me of my brother. That’s when I knew. I also knew that you were controlling, you didn’t want me to be with anyone else after you fucking left this country. Because honestly, you knew I would find someone better than you. So, listen up. I am moving on without you and sorry for you, those track marks of your nails down my back have no more skin to claw into.
I am going to go remove all traces of you and your ability to contact me tomorrow at some computer store. I don’t care which one, I just know that it is going to be done.
You are going to be done with this game you are playing with me.
You don’t deserve me.
You don’t deserve anything from me.
There won’t be a next time when I see your name across my screen, but if I ever see your feeble attempt to contact me, I will listen to that gut feeling. That voice of protection in my head, saying that the immediate response to your words should be ‘fuck you’.
Your name will never cross my lips again.
Your life will never cross mine again.
I will make sure of that.
So, go find someone else to cling onto.
I don’t like leeches and I never have.
So. Just fuck off. I wasted my time writing this about you. I could’ve been doing something productive, but instead I had to pick the thorns out from my body for the. Last. Time.