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.