Me.

You simply can’t blame me.

Not for the devastation that occurred.

I made it clear, I begged, I pleaded; for some civil communication and respite from the onslaught of hatred directed to me. I tried to help. I fucking tried. He hated me constantly. He lied saying he would accept me, but there was never respite from the judgements, the sly comments designed to break my identity.

I know him. He doesn’t know me. He hates me in secret, denying responsibility of the suffering he directed to me as punishments for the hurt he believed I delivered in intentions against his soul.

I loved him. I am broken, which I have always admitted. I told him at the start to leave, because I couldn’t trust myself.

As it turns out, I wasn’t able to trust either of us.

He claims love, does he even know where to find my words that I’ve typed? No. The same words I’ve read and shared with him. No. How can an individual claim love, when it is clear as day, they do not.

They don’t, if they have, they have lied. He lied.

Who is the real fool?