.

.

I hope you're miserable.

When you are with your friends at The Warped Tour and you're fucking girls with crop tops and tan stomachs, I hope you think about how we bought our tickets together and you notice the emptiness in your chest when you touch those girls who aren't me. I hope that feeling fills you up.

(I hope it eats you up.)

And when you get home from work and you're exhausted, I hope you go to pick up your phone before realizing that there is no one else who cares how your day was: no one but me, and that was before you broke my heart.

I don't want to be your friend.

When you see me somewhere don't come up and talk to me. I'm not your friend. A decent person doesn't treat a friend this way. If you were my friend, you would have asked me if I was okay.

(In case you were wondering, I'm not.)

I hope you hate yourself for what you did.

And when you think about that moment ― when you spoke as bluntly as you could, politely even, with the summer heat heavy on our backs as you stabbed mine ― I hope you feel nothing but regret. I hope you feel nothing but pain.

(But not really.)