You build me up, take me, and use me then leave me to fall apart. But, the saddest part is that I let you do it time and time again.
Deep down, I think you know that I love you. I think you deny it though, thinking that I don’t love you makes it easier for you.
Easier to text me and tell me you want to spend time with me, then completely shut me out once you’re satisfied.
Sometimes you don’t even go, though. You text me again to bail out and it hurts more than being played, because, at least when you play me, I get to spend time with you. I get to be close to you and I get to feel like you might actually care about me.
You’re not the only guy that does this. I reach out to others to try and forget you. They play me too, but it’s different than what you do. They tell me I’m beautiful, pretend to actually care, send me hearts over text, tell me they love me, then they shut me out.
You just shut me out after you use me, you don’t pretend to genuinely like me. That should make it easier, but it makes its harder.
I see you around school five days a week. Sometimes I feel like I’m invisible to you, sometimes you talk to me and we act as close friends, than somedays I feel like you purposely avoid me. I’m probably overthinking this though, I doubt I matter enough to you for you to even ignore me.
I know this is bad, but its gotten to the point that I’ve been hurt so much that I talk to multiple people at once, so that when one guy bails, there is still another one that I think cares about me.
Every time another guy plays me, it hurts. It hurts a lot. I cry… I cry for hours. Every time I think someone might genuinely like me, but then they tear me apart and cast me out, just like you do.
Every time another guy plays me, it hurts. It hurts a lot, but at least I’m not thinking about you. Thinking about you hurts even more. I know I’ll get over the other guy in a couple weeks or months depending on how much I cared, but I know no matter how many days, weeks months, years, I’ll never get over you.
I’m not an object. I’m not disposable. You cant just throw me away when you’re done. I’m not a piece of paper you can crumple up and throw away when you’re finished.
I hate what you do to me. I hate even more that I let you. And I hate the most that I’m standing here waiting, hoping, yearning for you to text me again.