He loved me.
It’s hard to write anything more than that statement,
But I mean it whole heartedly, he meant it whole heartedly…
I mean he fucking LOVED me. He loved me even though he knew I could barely tie my own shoes, he loved me even though I came to him in pieces, asking him to be my glue, he loved me knowing I’d never love him back and all he wanted was the truth from me, I couldn’t give him that much. It’s been years since I led him on, since I poisoned him with my curious kiss, breaking his heart, again and again, so why the fuck did he love me?
No matter how much time passes, every time I read the poems he wrote me my heart collapses. He loved me, and he never asked me to change who I was, he never judged me for my faults, my whims, the attraction darkness and I share, the only love affair I’d ever bare, he just wanted a chance and I just wanted to impair everyone who ever dared to try and love me. He was the only one who ever saw me bare stripped of my charades, my games, my darkness fully in place and he never once thought I was anything but beautiful, he loved me, he really did.