You were drunk, and you spilled it all out.

I was wrong. It was a mistake, I know. But I did it anyway.

And most nights, I spent lying on my bed trying to figure out the unbearable questions of the ‘How?’ And I’ll always wake up with the unbearable indifference, that I still do not have any answers, that I am still locked up in this slow-moving redemption.

I’ve always wondered why, what did I do wrong to be getting such mishaps? What did I do for the world to impose me with sentence after sentence, a series of unimaginable cruelty. Did I really deserve this? Do I?

I am a good daughter. I am a good friend. I have been a good student, a good follower, a good leader when expected to. I am a good citizen. I am a good servant. I am a good employee. I have, also, been nothing but a good, passionate, faithful and patient lover. I am a good pet owner.

But I don’t know, in between all of the goodness my body and soul is capable of giving, the reason why I couldn’t get this right — I couldn’t find anyone that would be willing to give me just as much.

Our paths crossed, for a reason of until know I can’t figure out what, ‘cause with you I was, I am, only capable of self-destruction.

I thought you would be willing to be the other half of me. I thought you believed in my soul. I thought, back then, you actually took my heart and had it in between your palms, nurtured it, watched it, listened to it as it speaks of your name. I thought, throughout all the nights that I looked into your eyes, it shone for me, it shone along with the little sparks and butterflies fluttering in your chest. I thought you believed I was special, that what we had was something that both of us can treasure. I thought you were, and the love you declared for me was not a big jack-in-the-box, a joke, a terrifying surprise. I thought, throughout all the times that you speak of your love, I could take them with me in the afterlife, believing they were all real.

I thought you were done lying to me.

You knew it was okay for me — that you hurt me more than the times I have hurt myself. You knew it was okay for me that you chose your own ways. You knew it was nothing for me that I get to be the the one that was left hanging in the past ’cause I wanted you to keep finding yourself. You knew it was okay for me that you didn’t take me with you.

And don’t you remember? It was okay for me when you told me you haven’t moved on yet, that you wanted to be freed, that you wanted nothing more of me, that you wanted more of her, that you wanted time to keep moving and set things right, without me.

I was smiling, I was fine. Not even a single stroke of disappointment and sadness, not even one can you recognize in my face. I told you it was all okay, because who keeps someone they love imprisoned if they are not happy anyway?

I told you it was all okay.

I told you I was okay. But I was screaming “I love you!” inside my head, “Do not go, do not make me leave! Do not go with her! Do not lose me! Do not let go!” I wanted to tell you not to give up on me, because my hands, they were still open to take yours even after miles you have already soared. I was still willing, and waiting, hoping. Hoping even just for a brush from your fingertips.

I told you I was okay. And that I really wish you’d set things right this time, with her.

But you were rather too absorbed, you didn’t see my real sufferings even if you said you did. You did not. You did not even try. You did not even face me. You did not offer your cheeks so I can slap them with both hands, so I can throw all my emotions at them like daggers until it bleeds, until it bleeds as much as I did — as I still do.

You never questioned me. You rather took my words and got on with it as fast as you could. You, asshole. You got your escape.

But you also knew it was okay for me that you loved me with, if not your whole, even just a partition.

But I didn’t know, when you said you did love me, that I was only looking at markings on a paper, a script being read out loud, a label on a biscuit wrapper, a draft ready to be thrown out inside an abandoned locker.

You told me you loved me. “I did love you, then” — that was the only thing left that I could take with me, knowing there was something real in our history.

Did.

I didn’t even care if the word was a sinister emphasis of how our time meant to you. I didn’t care if the word was appended like a disease. I only cared that I you did.

But I know the truth now. You said it yourself. In front of my friends, in the presence of them who loved us both, who have seen us kissed and loved, and shared food and held hands, you made me look like as insignificant as a toyed clay-doh. You said it yourself,

— A presence to fill in the hole.

How dare you do this to me, after all the goodness I have paid you, you’re returning them to me like useless scraps of pencil shavings? A fill to a void?? How does a true man be doing that to someone he knew he had hurt, who loved him and respected him?? Do not you know the word ‘guilt’ and respect?

You disappoint me. You truly are a big outrageous disappointment.

From this day on, I think I couldn’t look at you the same anymore. All the things that I know of you, all the things that you told me, I don’t know now what are true. Knowing you, I thought you were one of the realest and one of the few good men I have ever known, despite what you have done. But I am not so sure anymore. Actually, I’m pretty sure, now, that you are not one of them.

It feels like I do not know you anymore.

Or rather, it feels like I do not know you at all.

I hate that I’m giving you power for breaking me over and over again, knowing perfectly that you don’t give a crap about the pieces scattered on the floor. And I hate that I defended you from everyone who told me you were an asshole. I hate that I loved you dearly, and that I kept memories of you, of us, untinted and unborrowed.

I hate you. I abhor you. You are not the man worthy of anything that I am. You are not worthy, of me. Heck, you are not worthy.

I hate that I’d have to get up again tomorrow, with the heaviness in my heart that I can never ever make you feel. I hate that I could not talk about this to anyone.

I hate that I broke down at the office, took frequent visits to the washroom, stayed sitting at the toilet bowl, crying and trying not to make any sound just in case someone walks in. I hate that I get to keep this all to myself. I hate what you did, to me.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I really really really hate you.

I fucking shitty fuck fucking hate you.

I hate that I cannot slap you and hurt you, I’m boiling inside I think I could kill you with bare hands.

I hate that I could not turn back time, to the day that I learned I liked you. I hate that I cannot go back, to the day that I met you. Maybe if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be someone who was regarded as a regret.

And you know what’s worse? I didn’t love myself, because I was so busy trying to put my devotion to you above any other else. I was busy looking for ways, trying to play it really really safe because I wanted you to stay. I was afraid of seeing you running away from me, I was so tired people doing the same thing — leaving.

All of the things that I never imagined of doing to you, you never hesitated to do to me.

What did you do to deserve something as conventional and as free as this?

I hate you.

And I don’t think I will ever forgive you, no. Not ever.