I hate that I still think about you.
I hate that I still miss you.
I hate that I log into my other
Instagram just to see what you’re up to.
I hate that I still watch after you,
even though you never did the same for me.
You never carried my heart or cared for my smile;
you only cared about your own.
And even though I knew it was you and not me,
I still knew that I had done something wrong.
I thought about all the hours, days, and weeks we spent laying next to each other.
Making memories, or so I thought.
What we had wasn’t love,
but I loved it.
And now I’m not sure if I can ever love again at all.