I want to point my finger and place blame. Everything I felt is your fault. You treat me like shit. Ignore me. Show no remorse, sitting a carbon stamp of your ex-girlfriend at the bar and leaving me to work around her.
I want to hate you. Hate the way you walk away, with no shame. No guilt. How you lie, left, right and centre, about everything.
The way you take. Consume. Break and destroy. Leaving whatever it is behind you without a second glance. Even if that something is a person. Even if that something is me.
Because, in the end, I wasn’t a person. Not to you anyway. I was a thing. A turn on. A tease. I embodied the things you wanted that scared you.
Every time was the last time. The last time I’d help you get off, the last time I’d send you pictures or tell you all the dirty things you wanted to hear. The last time I’d let you treat me like that. Or feel nervous around you. Or empathise or be there for you.
I wanted to win, though, so I continued. I wanted to be better than her. I wanted you to want me. Because men like you, to me, are a drug.
It’s an addiction.
The fact you could snap me in half, but choose not to, is a turn on. Stopping something your size with a single glance is empowering. Letting someone your level of broken loose in the bedroom is thrilling.
Adrenaline pumping. Primal. Cathartic.
Watching you work was a turn on. You’re good at your job and you look delicious doing it. Laughing at the girls falling over the bar to touch you was a delight because it was me you wanted. It’s fun having the guy everyone wants.
Waking up to texts from you. Opening my front door at 3am because you just had to see me. Being the one you opened up to, confided in and shared things with. Is it any wonder I was surprised when your demeanour shifted? Why I was pissed when you openly told me about the other girls you wanted to get up on?
We were never going to be a thing. But fuck. That hurt.
Especially because you never stopped wanting me. So the mixed emotions heightened. The texts continued. The glancing. The perving. The wanting. Without release.
Because I scared you. It took me a long time to realise that. You can’t stand that I know you better than you know yourself. That I can read you and turn you on in ways you didn’t realise existed. The things you know you want but are to afraid to acknowledge in yourself.
The simple fact that I could break you in a heartbeat with nothing but honesty. Because the scariest thing to a liar, is someone who knows the truth.
I never cried, you know? I wanted to. I wanted to cry and hate you and holler profanities and hit you till my knuckles bled. But I couldn’t. My body knew if I acknowledged it and let a tear fall, they’d never stop.
Because you were bad for me. And I’m an emotional masochist. You, the physical manifestation of how I relate to myself were easier to deal with than the emotions themselves. I could be the victim. My friends could call you a dick. It was your fault. But thats not true.
It was a bipolar dynamic. Massive highs that never lasted and swooping lows that burned too long. A broken girl attracted to a guy who likes to break things. You held up the mirror and showed me the things I didn’t want to see. The things I didn’t want to acknowledge in myself. - I guess we did that for each other.
Because the issue was never that you treated me like shit. That was a symptom of a much bigger problem. I let you treat me like shit. And that says an awful lot more about me than I’d care to admit.
So thank you for being my rock bottom. Without you, I wouldn’t be doing the work needed to change my dynamic with myself.
It’s twisted, isn’t it? That you fucked me over and I win?
You got the girl. You got what you wanted from me. You walked away unscathed.
If you’d stayed, I’m not sure I’d have been strong enough to leave. The weekly fix of twisted emotions would have been too hard to turn down.
So I’m glad you left. That you moved on for something better. Because my something better is right here. And you removing yourself, is one of the best things you’ve done for me.
And I wont point the finger and place blame. I won’t hate you. In such a small amount of time you’ve given me something I would never have been able to give myself. You’ve helped me grow, albeit in an unbearably painful fashion. I can only hope I did something similar for you.
P.S keep sending me the dick pics. I won’t respond. But they’re nice reminders that I won.