Once again, you killed me. I am still in the process of trying to move on; to pick up the pieces that I let you shatter. But everytime I think that I don’t care anymore or that I’m okay , its all just a facade, because deep down inside, I still do and I’m not. I really did want to believe in that lie that I made up.

You left me in a very dark place down the rabbit hole. And you see, everyday, I was trying to climb that hole with everyone that I care about supporting me — helping me — reaching for my hand every step in the way. But you just have to push me back down that hole didn’t you? Do you take pleasure in seeing me being hurt? Are you happy seeing me bruised and scarred as I was falling down?  That the effort of the people who helped me, be pushed aside, just for you to make your fucking point? And the worst thing is, I don’t see your point. It doesn’t make sense to me.

You were the one who left me and I’m the one who’s stuck—the one that you left in a very dark tunnel. And that’s when I learned to embraced the darkness. Darkness has become a part of me, but I guess not enough because after all, I’m scared—once again.

But maybe I should try looking at it in a different angle.

You’re hurt. I’m hurt. We both are but at least I’m not acting nor even trying to be a jerk about it. This has always been your defense mechanism and I hate it that you keep doing this. It’s fine really, but what you don’t realize is that you are hurting people because of it. All you think is about yourself. But maybe its also your way of saying “Hate me. Hate me. You should because I’m a jerk who has done nothing but hurt you and this is why you should move on because you deserve so much better.” It’s not working though. Everytime I think that I could actually move on and not give a fuck about it, I always go back to thinking about you, wondering if you’re okay. But you’re probably not okay.

You’re also stuck in a rabbit hole. But yours is so much deeper and darker. When we were together I tried to pulled you out, but you slipped away, thinking that you deserve to be down there and I can’t help you because you can only help yourself. And what you are doing right now? Is not helping, as a matter of fact, you are making it worse. But who am I to tell you what to do?

You have become more miserable. And one day, when you’re reading this? I hope you are not as fucked up as you are now. I decided not to fight for us—for you not to get worse, I did it, because I think it was better for you—for us.

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