I hate crying. It’s supposed to make you feel better, but it doesn’t.
I think I’ve only cried twice this term. If that’s true, than I’ve only cried because of you. Once for not wanting to lose you, and again for having to let you go.
I hate this. I feel like I’m in high school again. “Have a good summer!” “We should keep in touch, okay?” “It was nice getting to know you!”
I’m not sure if I was upset by what you said, or by what you didn’t. GOD, I love you. And the fact that you don’t is killing me.
I’m writing sad poetry and crying. The sun has set and it’s getting dark. I’ll be home tomorrow.
Every song sounds sad, or like it’s about you. I hate being in love.
The worst part is, even if every part of my dreams came true, if you fell in love with me, and we dated, and everything was perfect, it would end up even worse. Because you aren’t who I’m in love with. Not really. I’m in love with April ash she is now, not who she will be, with hormones, and surgery, and time.
I don’t deserve you, and I know it.
Shit, I’m crying on the page.
This started sounding like a suicide note, and it isn’t.
I promise, it isn’t. I would never kill myself because of you. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone, least of all you, and it wouldn’t solve anything.
But worst of all, it would be terribly cliché.
I’ve dealt with unrequited love before. Proust’s best work came from it. I’ve just got to channel it into something productive.
I’m fine.
No, I’m not.
But I will be.
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