I'm becoming everything i hate, just to please her. An ex girlfriend.

I returned from Kansas, to an easy fuck. A friend of theirs became jealous; wanted me for themselves. Eventually, i grew bored of obsessive-easy dribble-kisser back-shredder attention-carver, and escaped to the friend. Who was spoilt, arrogant and lazy. But it was better.

Thought i was wanted; i was, for spite. I became fixated, believed this one would work. It almost did: they had a retreat, a shoulder to cry on, an accomplice after dark. But it didn't work for me. I refused to give up; this one will last. They convinced me it was more. Sex felt compulsory; two sluts and now a virgin. Take it, like yours was, i realised. Stupid, confused child, i didn't realise. This was applicable to both. Lived seperate lives together, believing what we wanted. I, the comfort, and they, my true love. Sex was over and done with soon enough. Realised what an orgasm was, and i was suddenly not just the retreat. I was a fucker. Sex and dependance, dependance and sex. Filthy, filthy. Both of us.

I suppose i wanted similar things. Someone to turn to, good source of sex. Never knew who we were.

They believed me to be a poetic romantic.

I believed them to be a poetic romantic.

I was a heavily depressed, suicidal child.

They were a dependant, stupid child.

I mean no spite; it makes sense now.

Every "i dunno", every blank stare. Every, "i love you". Every, "i feel the same".

It's scary to think that they saw me with more clarity than i saw them. Stupid, stupid me.

Couldn't handle it in the end. My imaginery genuis; causing my deterieration as i denied her lack of substance.

I just didn't want to believe that they, of all people, couldn't understand me. I just wanted to be understood, and loved, for who i am. Am i the villain? Am i no less confused as i was before?

I don't even know the answers to my own damn wretched questions.