This is not about him. This is about me. This is about the girl who told, about the girl who watched, and smiled, and called me her best friend and then turned around and just talked. This is about the girl that talked.
This is about burning letters and wearing hoodies and fallen leaves on the floor and New Year’s calls and tears. This is about fire. It’s also about me.
Seven days. Seven days. I told her on the fifth and she told her boyfriend on the sixth.

Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.

                                                         I won’t.

I am not interested in more lies, in more *******, in more apologies. I am not interested in you. I stopped being interested in you the moment your ******* boyfriend told my not-boyfriend that he and I were a thing. When did that choice become yours? WHEN DID THAT CHOICE BECOME YOURS?

CALL ME A ***** FOR DOING THIS. CALL ME A ***** FOR RUINING BUILDINGS AND BUILDING CITIES AND MAKING THIS ABOUT FIRE. CALL ME A ***** FOR MAKING THIS A BLAZE. YOU DID NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO. YOU DID NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO LIGHT THE MATCH.
STAY AWAY FROM THE CIGARETTES, STAY AWAY FROM THE CIGARETTES. CALL ME A *****, CALL ME A ******* *****. I DON’T CARE. I DON’T CARE. THIS WAS NOT YOUR CALL TO MAKE.
I WOULD HAVE LIT THE MATCH WHEN I WAS READY. I WOULD HAVE LIT THE ******* MATCH WHEN I WAS READY, BECAUSE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY ******* LIFE, DARLING, THIS WAS ABOUT ME.

YOU MADE IT ABOUT HIM. YOU MADE IT ABOUT HIM. I DID NOT CONSENT TO HAVING THREE PEOPLE IN A RELATIONSHIP, SO WHY ARE YOU HERE? ACTUALLY, I DID NOT EVEN CONSENT TO HAVING A RELATIONSHIP.

YOU LIT THE FIRE, YOU LIT THE ******* FIRE AND I AM DONE. PAINT MY NAME IN BLOOD ON THE REMNANTS OF THE CITIES I BURNED. I DON’T CARE.

THIS WAS NOT ABOUT ME. THIS WASN’T EVEN ABOUT HIM. YOU—YOU MADE THIS ABOUT YOU.