Firewood

I find it funny that we once were best friends. That you said forever and always, and I said that I didn’t believe you. But I lied because I believed every string of fallacy you threw my way and grasped onto that idea of Us, forever best friends, Us against the world. But little Us couldn’t make it over the hill of your problems. Us would have to take the fall for you, make the sacrifice, be crucified all in the name of your undying desire for affection. I tried. I tried to be enough for you, not once but twice. How can it be that whatever I, not her, not the other girls who hurt you, but me, the one who was there for you and comforted you, is the one who gets left behind? I loved you. Not in a romantic sense, but in a I’ll be your rock, and I expect you to be the same sense. A friendship you claimed to believe in. You turned your back on me and your belief and now your nothing but a hypocrite and a user. You burned me up and used me for firewood on your alter of girls who weren’t what you wanted. I may say it’s funny, and I may say I don’t care. But I expect you to know the truth. I don’t want anything from you. I just need you to know that it’s not funny. You aren’t cool, righteous, or capable of a shred of loyalty or truth. You’re a loser who used me and left me twice. I’m stupid for letting it happen twice, but your the jerk who did it, claimed he wouldn’t again, and did. I don’t need anything except your grasp of the fact that I hope you one day meet a girl who doesn’t take that kind of treatment, who sees through all of your false statements, and tells you just how much of a jerk you are.

I wish I could be her, but I don’t care enough to.

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