I find the notes we wrote,
and I want to burn them;
they make me sick.

"I love you;"
I want to throw up;
the thought of you
makes me sick
and angry;
even still.

It comes in waves.

I can't seem to help it.
I am deeply vexed; irked.
You have such sickening gall,
audacious and licentious girl;
You inspire such rankle
by that of your own;

I hope it is in youthful folly
and not evidence of malign habit;
though there is no way for me to know,
yet patterns are what they are
and I know people who've seen the patterns
much longer than I have;
I can no longer deny their Authority on the subject.

So, I'm sort-of sorry,
but I know I shouldn't be;
I really shouldn't feel the need
to apologize for how I feel,
especially when I feel that way
due in part to the actions
of a supposed
"Lover"

I willingly made myself
raw and vulnerable to you,
and you alone.

I gave you my Heart
with trust that you would care for it,
and you went and spitefully stabbed it
over and over and over and over again
without so much as a thought of me
until it bled out in your hands;
reap what you have sewn,
injurious, flippant girl.

All's fair
in Love and War,
it seems.