I fucking hate thinking about you, I hate dreaming about you. I wish you would just get out of my head because I know sure as hell you aren’t giving a single fuck about me. & if you are, you wouldn’t do this to me if you supposedly “love” me. Fuck this feeling and most especially fuck everyone. What is love? real shit; because if this is love… THIS SUCKS!
closure
underneath that fake confidence is a very insecure and unhappy boy.
a boy who begs for a second chance.
a boy who lies and/or cheats without an ounce of guilt.
a boy who avoids any ownership of our failed relationship.
a boy who is so inconsiderate, that it makes me want to throw up.
This is why I will never allow myself to be with you again; the truth is I’m tired of being nice; it’s exhausting. I’m tired of being fearful that you will go batshit crazy one day.
I’m tired of just having you in my life; you drain me. I don’t want you anymore; I can’t handle it, I just can’t.
When you walked in I thought—There she is, the one that’s different.
“
| — | Humphrey Bogart as Dixon Steele, In a Lonely Place (1950) (via krissybelle, kateinslacks) |
