before you left, you asked
if i would write about you again;
i lied and said no.
'you’ve written enough about me, '
you said with an oddly placed smile.
and then you were gone.
if you asked why i called last night,
i’d use the excuse that i was drunk
when the real reason was that i
just missed you
like i have been missing you.
if you asked why i say
the cruel things i say,
i’d tell you it’s because nothing matters,
but you don’t know how much i wish things did.
i’m trying to act like things matter again,
but it’s so hard when i’ve seen the truth.
when i know how useless and stupid and
insignificant everything truly is.
maybe i’m wrong; i wouldn’t be surprised
since i normally am.
i think you finally hate me now
and maybe i should feel accomplished
and apologize one last time for
unintentionally messing with you head,
but i can’t bring myself to say anything
because it hurts talking to and about you.
plus, you know i’ve never been one
to admit i was wrong.
if it makes you feel any better,
i’d like you to know just how much i hate myself,
more than you.
but i guess that doesn’t matter either.