I hate that we are vague
I hate that I want to pour out all these words onto you

I hate that I threw away the many pages
Of words written about you

This is not written
In sadness
Or regret

Just annoyance
In letting myself try to trust

That man was just a boy
With psychotic tendencies

He would have broken my face
If I had stayed in place

He ripped those pages
To shreds almost
In his jealous rage

It was the past,
The past I tell you!

How can one be so angry over
Past memories?

Like swimming in ripped jeans
They can be disposed of
With the torn seams
No worries there