A Letter To My First Ex-Boyfriend

I wrote him my first love letter and a week after he broke up with me,
my first hate letter.


My Sweet,

I hope you choke when you tell your next squeeze how much you love his smile, his way with words and his perfect cock. Picking at my scabs until you left them bleeding and gaping wide open in the scorching sun, you lied to me. Something about you disillusioned me. Your net was cast and I was trapped in the squirming enclosure of your wretched spell.

Pouring out these spiteful words now has made me realise how awful you were to me. Truly, truly fucking awful. You made me believe I was something valuable, a diamond in the rough that sparked more than just your casual interest. Thus, you wandered out of your introverted shell and dared to go to the lapping waters that brought us together. I wasted no time leaping across the sand into your arms, but not once did you clue me in to your hesitance. You let me be blind and misguided.

And you still don’t know me. You didn’t bother getting to know me, disinterested in pushing past your romanticised concept of obtaining a boyfriend; owning someone and their complete undivided attention. Until you got bored. You scratched at my skin and tugged at my flesh but you did not dare cradle my bones. You created a deception, a falsehood of trust and reliability and tenderness that you decided had expired long ago.

I hate you for making me believe I could be your first.

Not once did you even for the utmost split of split seconds consider me your first love. I was your first kiss. That was it. Bashfully, you told me you didn’t want to think about sleeping with anyone but me: I wish that could have been the truth. I quake to my very core thinking you will compare this heap of ashes to your romantic forthcomings, and just the mere suggestion of anyone else tasting the skin I tasted makes me boil with rage. Why do I still want someone who doesn’t want me?

It wasn’t working. More time to yourself. Spending too much time on your phone and not reading or going out as often on as many walks alone. Getting too close to someone so quickly. Not ready. Awkward and uncomfortable.

You let me believe so many things that now have fruitlessly wilted. And the worst of all is that I miss you, I still want you and not being with you shreds my insides like a starved lion shreds a carcass. Tendons slit and nerves askew! You’ve carved me up and laid me out for dinner, pretty boy, now I hope you choke on my mutilated bones.

Author: whoaskedyoublog

The ramblings of a not-so-trendy teen.

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