I am the tortured soul.
The cliché heartbroken child.
Pathetic and forlorn.

You are the cause of this.
My sadness does not deter you,
it eggs you on.
You are unwavering in your feelings.
My hungry heart is a joke,
a point of amusement in your twisted mind.

“Oh God, I’m one of those men women read about in their magazines!”
So funny to you it’s sick.
Hurting another human being isn’t cute.

Don’t flatter yourself.
You’re nothing special,
and my friends didn’t like you anyway.
I may seem silly and desperate to you,
my repeated texts and calls.
But you, my friend, are alone.

And you will stay that way,
until you get over your apprehensions.
And decide to grow a pair.

I am honestly touched,
you thought you were that important.
But guess again, dearest,
for I do not waste my precious time on this earth.
And you will not hear from me again.
“Hate runs through my blood, but my tongue was in love.”
So have a great life,
and lose that number of mine.

This always happens.
Chew me up and spit me out, right?
I want to listen to “Smother” by Daughter and think about how much life *****,
and think about you, and think about what we could have—should have—been.
I want to show you how good of a person I am,
I want to make you see how well I would treat you,
were you mine to treat.
Over before it began.
Will we still go on that date as previously discussed?
It’s okay to say no, I’ve heard it all before
“You’re really nice, but…”
“I just don’t wanna ruin our friendship…”
“I’m not really looking for anything right now…”
And every time I nod and smile,
and lie through my teeth and say that everything is fine.

But it’s not fine, and I want you.
I want you to myself.
I want to walk into a room with you,
I want people to recognize you as mine, and me as yours.
I want to spend long Sunday afternoons with you, reading in bed.
I want to feel your skin against mine, feel your lips against mine.
I want to make love (even though I hate that phrase).
I want to share with you my wildest hopes and dreams,
and I want to know everything about you.

What makes you happiest.
When you’re the most content.
What scares you.
Your favorite ice cream flavor.
All of it, every detail.
I want to become privy to every part,
and when I see you walking towards me from a distance,
I can think to myself, “I really know him. I really love him.”

But this shall not be so.
I am not the right one for you,
just like I am not the right one for so many others.
You say it isn’t personal, but it obviously is.
It’s always personal.
So I will move on with my day,
and try not to think about you all throughout my ****** philosophy class.
And I will fail.
And you will be oblivious.
And we will go on as two parts of a puzzle that don’t go together.
And pretend that we’re friends but never speak.
And eventually lose contact all together.
And hopefully we’ll both find happiness somewhere else.
But even if we do, you will matter to me right now.
And I will shamefully lie awake in bed at night,
and dream of you being there next to me,
until I begin to drift off and realize
I’m warm enough on my own.