I haven’t written this **** yet so here we go…
It hits me every time I sit on a red couch.
Sometimes I wanna gouge my eyes out.
Sometimes I feel sick.
I used to be surrounded with comfort
Against the fabric.
Now it brings in dead torture.
Once, I had a friend I used to like…
Or so I thought…
You see?
I regret tellin’ him I liked him,
More than friends.
Shouldn’t cuddle with him,
or hold his hand…
Or lean in to kiss him.
But I was in the moment.
My heart skipped a beat when he said
“I love you”.

Now it goes from a “I love you” to a
“I didn’t wanna hurt you the same with Ethan”
Which left me bitter and broken.
I don’t hate him because
he made a promise he couldn’t keep.
I mean I wish I’d forget this ever happened.
He said something that made me not trust again.
He leaned in after the kiss and whispered
“If you want me to let go, that’s fine,
but if you don’t say anything,
I won’t let go of you.”
I hate him now because I hate believing it.
I hate myself.
I realized I was an act for his entertainment
Of his loneliness.
He left me on silent for a while after.
So I cut the thread and left the moment dead.
Leaving that red couch cold.