I’m miserable. I don’t want to think about the past year. I don’t want to think about anything bad. I only want to think about the good things. I want to think about holding you in my arms, when we had the Christmas tree in your room. I want to think about when you were in my life and it had meaning. I want to think about the way your skin smells, that sweet smell that is you. I want to think about how incredibly soft your lips are, and how gently you kiss. I want to think about how fucking beautiful your eyes are, the deep, bright brown eyes that I fell in love with. I have always loved you. I was wrong. From the very beginning I was wrong. But I was too young to see what I had. I was too immature to understand how perfect you are.
I hope that one day, I can have you back. I want your love. I want your revenge. I don’t want to be friends. I want your ugly, your disease, your drama, your horror, the touch of your hand, your psycho, your everything. I want every part of you that is perfect in it’s imperfection, every innocent, loving ounce of your soul and your heart.
That little kid will never love you the way I do. He’s an immature little brat. I love you. I love you more than he does. I’m better for you. You know that you love me more than you love him. I hate him. I want you to be safe, taken care of, happy, and grow as a person, not with some skinny little fuckboy. I love you. I want you mine again.