It didn't matter how many times I apoligized.
It didn't matter how many tears I cried.
It didn't matter how many cuts I made.
It didn't matter how much blood I bled.
You didn't care.
You told me you always would.
But you lied.
You told me you hated me.
I'm fine with that.
Hatred still has some passion in it.
Of course I'd prefer it if you'd love me.
But you don't.
You still think of me.
Just like I still think of you.
But it doesn't matter.
You don't love me,
As I love you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem