We were on and off and on and off. And the whole time you were playing the same games with other girls. And it’s been a year since you finally left, and there are other women experiencing their one year marks of lovers lost and not feeling anything and I’m still dreaming about you almost every night and feeling that sickness crawling beneath my skin.
I’m left with so much uncertainty about everything involving you and who I was when I was with you and what I became with and without you. I don’t want to feel anything for you anymore. You always told me that I never knew who you were, but the more I think and the more people tell me, the more I think I know you better than you know yourself. You are diseased, and I was in love with all your pretty lies and the curve of your back and the hope that you could change and be better than you’d ever been before. But I was not in love with you, the real you, the liar and the cheater and the fool.
Am I still in love because I didn’t love something real? It’s not like you changed, you just revealed your truths to me and tried to trick me into believing the lies were truths and vice versa. And though I know you’ll never change, and you’ll always believe the lies that you try to feed women, I can’t stop thinking about the fake you, the one with the firm but gentle hands and the sweet words and poisoned promises. As much as I hate who you really are, I love the lie you can be.