we were a perfect mess, you and I.
you were the first one to make me so angry,
i wanted you to walk out that door and never come back.
i think you knew that, and oh darling, you deserve more than scars.
is it wrong to say it's not you, but me?
was our love really that cliche?
but how is a cliche formed except for from a thousand love stories?
i could write about how seeing the door slam behind you ripped me apart into two different pieces.
one part of me believes you'll come back, you'll fight for me.
the other part has stopped believing in fairy tales.
i never wanted to be this girl.
i'm giving you up because you mean to much to me, it's scary.
i'm making you go.
i don't expect you to understand that.
maybe someday they'll write novels about us.
immortalized in literature like modern day muses.
you would like that, wouldn't you?
i will always love you.
but please, don't call me when you get this.
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