I am angry. You found a fucking rebound and stuck with her against your better judgment. I am angry that I'm choosing to deal with you, with this, in such a way. That I have to be the strong one, and take the fucking high road. The harder road, not one that is smoothly paved before me. I hate that I refuse to get distracted and instead chose to face this. I hate dealing with my pain. Everyday. I hurt and I'm not running away from it. I hurt and I'm alone in this dwelling because no one ever chooses to deal with things the right way.

Why can't I get a fucking break? From me? From my god damn better judgment. Why can't I fuck every guy I want. Till I'm numb, until I'm dead inside. Why can't I use anyone? Pretend and fake affection. Play interested.

I think I'm better than everyone else.

I think I'm better than you and I feel guilt because of that. And I hate myself for that.

I'm angry that you found a rebound and that she meant nothing. I'm angry you had to be weak. I wish I could be weak and give myself a god damn fucking break.

I wish I drank myself to death.

I think I'm better than everyone else and therefore know I can never love.

I understand the permanence of everything last night. It's over. I can never see you again, because when I do all I want to be is bad. To have what I cannot have. We could never be, and every time I see you, I convince myself otherwise.

The world does it the easy, escapist way and I wish for one night I could be bad. I'm dying to get it out of my system.

I hate that you don't cry and that your sadness manifests itself through anxiety instead of full blown depression. My eyes are swollen. I broke three picture frames, punched the walls 'till my fingers bled. And you're fucking a dumb fat slut.

I hate how I broke up with you, and I am the one suffering. I am wallowing, drowning in some muddy pit.

But most of all, I hate that you weren't the one for me, and you still believe I was. Marriage and true love. I hate how you still keep a picture of me in your car, and when it fell through a vent, you begged your mom to help you break the car apart so you may find it. And you found it. And it's back in its safe place.

I have a picture of you too. To look at it is torture. To rant this way is torture. But I am dealing with it. The right way. The "strong" way, whatever that fucking means.

What else is there left to do? I cannot be any other way.

I am real. I am here. I am hurt today.

And if one more fucking person tells me time heals all wounds, I may become physically aggressive.