The saddest part is, is that no matter how much I hate him, or which he was never in my life, he was. And I loved him, and the cute shit he did. He was like a weight, that crushed my body and mind everyday, and at the end of each day I’d still crawl to my knees with tears swelling my eyes only to tell him I loved him. I had the idiotic notion that with love there is pain, and you will get through all of the pain and have nothing but love.
Since he walked out on me (quite literally, and, without even telling me) and went back to Boston, I’ve had this swelling anger built inside of me. He has tried to ‘woo’ me back into his life, and I only responded with a passionate “go fuck yourself” attitude. In the long run, he will never change. He will still be the sad little boy with no daddy and a mom who gives more shit about the beer she buys than him, and no matter how hard I wanted to, I couldn’t have helped him. I wanted a life with him, and for him to feel like he had a family, but all he could do was run over me like I was pavement.
His idea of being cared for by me was, and I quote, me being a “over-obsessed crazy cunt”. It’s funny that after he was actually gone, he said that he loved how much I cared about him. But I cared for the wrong person. He was a shattered window, and I was the idiot who tried to put him back together. I knew my hands were bleeding and that I would never be able to look out of the window and see beauty, but only his cracks, and how broken he actually is, even though he will always tell people he is just a window..