I promised myself I would not write to you again.
But how can I? Barely breathing with the weight of your shadow upon me, I can't help but think about you.
When the thinking gets too heavy to endure, I write. I hadn't written in a long time.
But howcome everytime you come around I just get a desperate need to write about you, and only you?
And over all, why do you keep coming around? I mean nothing to you and I suppose you thought you didn't mean to me too.
Maybe now you know. And maybe now you will never come back around. And as sad as this makes me, I can't do anything about it. I will never allow myself to call you or search for you. I will think about you and how I miss you and how I miss your smile, your voice, your touch. But then again I will have to force myself to remember how I hate what you do to me, how I hate what you do to her, how I hate all of your lies and how I am just sick of the bad person you act like you are.
There is the problem: I know you're just pretending. Deep down your heart is huge, and although your hunger for women is insatiable, I prefer to believe that you lie simply out of instinct.
You've been hurt and you have loved. You know what it feels like. Even so, you keep hurting people who care about you.
I never gave you a reason to treat me in any way other than the way you do, like I don't deserve nothing.
But I gave you my most sincere words, thoughts and confessions. I opened up my heart to you and so did you. This got lost somewhere between your myriad of lies, but I know it existed at some point.
As hard as it is to admit, I let you into my heart. Silently, so not you or anyone would notice. Maybe not even me.
It's hard to admit, but I'm just trying to forget.
I'm writing to let it out.

I hope you're happier in her arms.