Honestly, don’t ask me. Don’t ask me why. Because I don’t have the answer. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I keep rummaging over the past and its materials and the too old texts when they no longer reflect the present. These were all from a time when we didn’t hate each others existence. But today, we do. At least one of us does. So much. But I don’t and I hate that. I am not going to pretend that I no longer love him just because he hates me so much.
Guess like I said, maybe it’s my thing. The thing that makes me happy, reliving the past, reliving the hurt, the pain, the memories. Because nothing has made more sense since then. A love once so true, now so bitter.
If he ever saw this his reaction would be something along the lines, “Another one of her attention seeking stunts. Or drama queen, who loves drama at it again. Or she’s still weird and disturbed. Or damn falling in love with four guys a week has still got her nowhere. Whore. Prostitute. Gold-digger. Uncle fucker. Whore.”
“Time does not always heal all wounds. Time demands answers and new wounds reopen old ones.”
She Was Sea 