I had closed my heart for the past six years. I let myself go, gaining 80 pounds to make sure that loneliness would never tempt me into trying again - when you’re fat you don’t have those options.
You were my friend and you became more. You made me feel again and I hate your guts for it.
You were clear from the start that you were just using me. I hate you for making me see that, despite all my “no one will ever fuck me over again” bravado, I let you and let you and let you.
You knew I loved you and you didn’t care. You knew I couldn’t extricate myself from you, and you still kept me around to feed your ego and fulfill your own needs.
You made me desperate to make you love me. Desperate to prove to you I was worth more than a booty call, and more than “just friends” too.
I never could prove that to you, and the failed effort proved to me that what everyone had always said or the way everyone had always behaved was true: there’s something wrong with me, I’m not worthy of ever being loved by anyone, I’m too fucked up to ever have a relationship, and the world would be better off without me.
I really, really didn’t need to learn these things over again.
Every man I see that looks like you, I’m reminded of these lessons. Over and over and over. I’m reminded that, despite how much you hurt me, I still want you, and I’m reminded about how pathetic I am.
I’ve spent six years trying to shut my eyes to how the world sees me, and you pried them back open, and I hate you for it. I tried to force you to have feelings for me, to miss me when I’m gone, to depend on me, and you were up front that you wanted none of it, so the whole thing is my fault, but still I hate you for it.
I put the mirror in your hands, forcing you to hold it up to me. Then I looked in it. But it’s you I hate for it.
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