Maybe the problem is me—
that I loved too much.
I wanted you to give yourself
the way I give myself.
I wanted you to cry for me
the way I cry for you.
I wanted you to care for me
the way I care for you.
To give you an idea—
I talk to you even when you’re not with me.
My God,
that’s awful.
I did give too much of myself,
and I don’t know how to change it.
It’s not just with you—
it’s with everyone.
I love too much.
That’s the problem.
Or maybe not.
Maybe the problem
is expecting you to love me
the way I love you.
But now I hate you.
You’re showing me
how much of an idiot I am
for giving myself away like this.
Because no one cares.
You don’t care.
I don’t think I ever gave you love—
it was charity.
It was my desperation
taking the lead.
How could you let
such an important date
go by unnoticed?
I came home
and you were asleep.
How?
It was supposed to be special—
even if we celebrated another day,
today never comes back.
Never.
It’s gone.
And I think I’ve grown.
I always give another chance,
always tell myself it will get better.
And yes,
the problem is me—
I keep carrying this relationship
on my back,
feeling bad for making you feel bad.
When I feel bad, you say,
“*******, leave me alone,”
and disappear for two days,
then act like nothing happened.
“All good.”
There’s no nonviolent communication
that could calm my rage,
my hate.
I will touch myself this time
with hunger,
as revenge
for all the pain you caused me—
and you won’t even know.
I’ll think of other men,
because in my mind
they’re better than you.
Why do I keep breaking myself
to make others whole?
To make you happy?
I’m not happy.
You know I take medication
just to be okay—
and still,
this won’t work.
I need to give a little love
to myself too.
A lot of love, actually.
