The first time I wrote about you, I thought you would think it was romantic, I thought you would appreciate all the time I thought of you.
The second, I realized you weren't here for romance or flowers or kisses on the porch.
The third, I wished you were.
The forth, I settled with being an object of your torture, and sometimes play.
The fifth, I decided I was nothing with or without you.
The sixth time I wrote about you it was about the **** I told everyone else was the first time we had ***.
The seventh, I pretended that my broken rib didn't stab into my lung when I coughed up the tar that filled my lungs, I picked up habits that could never hurt me more than you.
The eighth time was when you decided I was worth your time again.
The ninth was the first time I said I loved you, and it felt like I hated you.
The tenth, I was territorial, I wanted to be the only one you abused.
The eleventh, I played with the idea of you loving me, the key word was played.
The twelfth time I wrote about you, I pretended this was a normal high school crush, not the connection to you sealed with the reddened amber keeping you close to me.

The thirteenth. The thirteenth time I had a dream where I starved you, like my fruitful forgiveness of your sins was the very nectar that fed your body, and I starved you.

The fourteenth you were kind. The only time you were ever kind to me was the fourteenth. This span of time was when I fell back in love with the man who made me forget what it even was, and felt guilt about the thirteenth.

The fifteenth. The fifteenth time I wrote about you was on Easter. I was reborn into a life of loneliness and constantly trying to get you back.
Age Fifteen was when you first hit me but sometimes I still consider fifteen my lucky number.