“Can you forgive me?” You asked in quiet distress.
“Yes.” I foolishly replied.
In retrospect, our problem was never your lies. Our problem was my lies.
Every “yes” I ever gave you. Every “yes” that harbored the pain you caused me and the distrust I held for every word you ever spoke to me.
That night, when you poured your heart out to me and asked for my forgiveness, I should have said no.
I should have told you about the drinking and the smoking and all of the ways I punished myself for the look in your eyes when I told you I loved you.
I should have told you about all the nights I drifted into a defeated sleep on tear-stained pillowcases, after crying about the memory of our last goodbye.
I should have told you that the reason I hadn’t moved on was because in everyone I met, I desperately searched for pieces of you.
I should have told you that the dolor in which your presence brought into my life far outweighed the merriment.
I should have told you that you were indeed just as malicious as you made yourself out to be, that you didn’t deserve the love I or anyone else had to offer.
I should have told you that the place I kept for you in my heart was not filled with a special type of love you showed me, but a special type of agony you gave me.
I should have told you that you weren’t worth the seven years I wasted on you.