I thought I moved on; I haven’t been missing you– but sometimes, I hear a song come on about heartbreak or see a joke we used to laugh about and I feel vacant all over again. That is not moving on, and oh God, I think I’m far from it. I know we sometimes fought, but we made up every time. When I looked at you, I felt powerful. I felt really fucking powerful.
It was like snorting a line of coke, and if I’m being honest, I’d rather be sky high than home feeling so fucking used and washed up. Baby, I hope you know you’ve made a mistake.
I’m more than aware that I am problems simply existing in human skin, but you weren’t aware of what I would have done, You couldn’t see me past my anxiety and insecurities, but oh fuck, I was so much more. I was suffering and instead of helping me, you took it as a chance to manipulate me. I was the perfect victim for a puppet– but I’m not a fucking puppet, and I will make my own decisions– it’s just sad because I always chose you.
I always chose you, but you never chose me.
I know you will try to find me again. Even though you went to the girl with blond hair and you tried to find that same silly attitude and that same big heart. You wanted me, but you didn’t want the sadness, you didn’t want the mood swings, you didn’t want the insecurity. I was more bad than good to you. I guess to you, I came with too much baggage. I was a burden.
Well this burdened soul cared about you. I cared about you and you didn’t appreciate a damn thing. I could sit here and say I’ve moved on and you’re old news, but you’re not, not yet. You’re still in my dreams and every song on shuffle. You’re still every other thought, not that I miss you, but that you damaged me beyond repair. I just don’t want to seem so pathetic. Every time I hear certain songs I think of you, every time I see a guy with long hair I hope it’s you. It’s never you, but part of me always wants it to be.
I miss hearing you say you’re on your way home, and in no time you’d be at the door. You’re never at my door and it’s hard to get over that. Yes, I’m moving on, but it’s hard. It’s not even fair. You moved on quicker. I was the one who got their heart ripped from their fucking chest. I was the one swallowing twenty pills at a time, snorting coke on the bathroom counter and crying on the floor as I stained my favorite sheets.
I was the one who cried and cried and cried. I was the one who loved and cared more. Fuck, it’s not fair that you’re getting the happy ending. It’s not fair.
Just know that I loved you and you fucked me up. Just know that I wrote pages and pages about you, and you couldn’t even give me a text to say hello half of the time. Just know that you broke my heart, and don’t you dare forget me. If you do remember me years from now, don’t remember me as that ex that was just too sad or that one with too many problems. Don’t think of me as the one who made you so mad or the one who made you lash out. Remember me as the one who was full of pain, but laughed so hard. Remember me as the one who made the weird jokes and always managed to get a smile out of your frowning face. Remember me as the one that always stood up for you, no matter what it was about. Remember me as the one who kissed every part of your body and never let you go feeling lonely. Remember the good times because they weren’t all bad.
Remember me, please.