thirteen august
four : forty-one p.m.

fuck you.

i hate the way you blame me for everything. it wasn't my fault, but it still winds up seeming that way.

i hate the way you led me to believe something would finally work out. i hate the way you got my hopes up.

i hate the way you don't care. or pretend not to care. its probably the former. where is your sympathy? your emotion? your conscience?

i refuse to be pushed around by you. you didn't have a problem with me until i got my own ideas.

don't think, don't talk, don't feel a thing.

(side note: i miss my love.)