Guilty as charged, but
I didn't know I was
at the time.

(Or were you just ignoring the truth?)

If you told me, just
told me that you were
hurt…maybe…
things would have been
different.

(You are different, that's the problem.)

The tears in my eyes
fill up my writing with
cliché-ness.
But at least, they take
up lines.

(What has everything come to?)

I don't need to find out
(when I wasn't suppose to),
that I hurt you so long ago.
Am I still hurting you now?

(So what do you – what does anyone – do now?)

Just lay here staring at the sky,
wishing things would just
pass over me and everything
would be
okay
after all.

(Fairytale endings don't happen here.)

Not now, anyways,
I don't think they ever did,
to tell you the truth.
But when I was younger,
everything seemed like it was
a dreams come
true.

(Now you laugh. Now you cackle at your stupidity.)

But the words you wrote,
hurt me inside.
More than maybe you meant it,
(or maybe you didn't mean it.
I wasn't really going to read it.
But even I learned the hard way:
when you post something on the
internet, it's not that private.)

"Maybe she'll find someone else to take care of her, instead of me."

It hurt.
And the italicized voices
in my head are calling.
You should have known this would happen.