I get why my mom says she hates my father, but she still keeps him around. I want to call it love, but it’s not love... It’s fear. Fear of losing people, and the enormous fear of being all alone. It’s terrifying how willing people are to put up with people who treat them like ****. When you're scared, it's easy to believe it's the last time they'll cheat, even though you've said that the last three times.  It's easy to pretend it never happened, even when you've seen the proof.  You want to believe you aren't just one of many.   You want to believe you're special.  You want to believe it's love.
****,
I want to believe it's love.
But, it’s not.
People say love is strong, but I think fear is a little stronger.

I felt so much for you, and it's clear you felt so little for me. Emotionally, you make me feel like ****.

I admire those girls who have their guys "whipped."
Those girls who expect nothing less than the best, and always get it what they want.
Personally, I feel like guys only like me because I'm easy to please.
I don't require fancy dates, expensive things, I don't make guys pay for my food, I offer to drive.
I'm easy.
It's not like I don't want a nice date, flowers, and something a little more romantic than the back of your mom's car.
I accept what I get, and don't ask for more, because I don't think I deserve it.

Quoted from one of my favorite movies  Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower  “We accept the love we think we deserve.”

It was the perfect ending. We were like one of those classic 80s movies. I rolled down my window, and yelled " I love you," and you responded with, "I love you too." Then I waved, and you said, "see you soon." I smiled, and drove away.

Sad little boys.
You reek of desperation.
It felt great to say no.
No, I won't come closer.
No, I won't do it again.
No, I won't kiss you.
No, I will do what I want.
And trust me...
I do not want to do you.

"Babe, you were my last thought in 2014, and now you're my first thought in 2015...
I love you."

That's what I texted you last year, at midnight, on New Years Eve.
You replied with, "Aw, thanks."

It's December 28th, 2015, and I haven't gone a day this year without you on my mind.
I don't think anyone understands what I feel towards you, you especially don't.

I feel like at one point you might have loved me.  Now I feel like you tolerate me, but even that can only last for so long.

I've spent a year loving someone who didn't love me back.  I've spent a year trying to make things work, with someone who never cared to try.  I don't think it was the healthiest year for me.  But the thing is, I can't blame anyone for it. It's been my choice, and it always has been.  I choose to make this year about you, I choose to put you first, I keep picking you.

Will 2016 be another year of you?  I guess it's my choice, let's see what I pick.

It's those little specks of hope, that make me stay. The 1 text where you say, "I matter" to you, followed up by the 100 that say I don't.  It's the little kiss on my shoulder after you **** me up so badly, I can hardly stand. You know I'm addicted. When I'm yours, you don't care, but when I try to leave you grab my hand and coax me to stay.
Please help me. I'm addicted to the glimmer.

Some people use the sentence, “I love you,” in such a careless manner.  They toss it around to everyone, and say it so often, they make the sentence meaningless.  To love someone, I think you have to know them, and know them well.  You should, at the very least, know their favorite color, and middle name.  I think everyone deserves love, but not everyone deserves your love. Don’t just throw "love" around, and take away its worth.

You’ve told me that i’m your best friend.

You’ve told me that you’re in love with me.

You’ve told me i’m the only thing that makes you happy.

You’ve also told me that you don't need me.

You’ve told me to go away.

You’ve told me to never talk to you again.

You’ve told me that I stress you out.

You’ve told me I make you feel lonely.

You’ve told me you don’t care about me.

You’ve told me you’d **** me.

But, you’ve also said you don’t give a **** about me, and that you never did.

I can't believe one thing you've said, without believing the rest.

Hearing your mom cry is the worst thing in the world. My mom cried for a year straight. At least, that’s what it felt like. She would try to hide it from me. Lock herself in the bathroom, and turn the shower on. She would come out with dry eyes, and a smile on her face. Coincidentally, the way she hid her tears was the same way I did. Sometimes we would both be in the bathroom, her in the upstairs bathroom, and me in the downstairs one. In a way we were doing it together, and it was comforting.

You can be nice, or you can be honest. I’d like to believe that I will always prefer honesty, but on some days, nice is the only thing I can handle.

I think about you moaning alot.  
For a while, it was my prize, and motivation for everything.  I would do anything to hear those little gasps, to feel the quiver of your body.  I did it because I wanted you to know how much I cared about you.

I did it because I thought, it would make you love me more.  You would fall in love with how good I made you feel, and me along with it.

I’ve had quite a few.  
Most spent kissing, and *******, rather than actually looking at the stars.
I almost expected the same from you. I was waiting for the cheesy pick up line, the attempt to get me back in the car. But, you didn't do that.  We didn’t kiss, or have ***, or do anything of that sort. Instead we talked, and just sat next to each other. It was lovely, and passionate, and all you did was be my friend.

I cry.  
I cry a lot.
I tell people I don’t, but that’s a lie.
I cry in the shower.  I cry in my bed at three o’clock in the morning.  I cry behind a locked door, covering my face, in a silent house.