I have to stop. All this has to stop. Writing about you, about what I feel for you. That doesn't help. I have to forget you. You are my worst almost.
I have to move on. We were nothing anyway huh. Everything was in my head, right. Get out of my head, my heart and my soul. I will not write about you anymore.
You're made up of layers more than a hundred of them but when you peel a few they thought they already know you impressed, appalled to see you baring your soul, opening yourself and you find it funny and you find it kinda sad because to you it's nothing like a small scratch on a surface nothing but just a few layers off and you have a hundred more to go.