I've been writing about you since you left. I know you'll never read this. I know I'll be too afraid to show you and you won't find it yourself.
I think you chose me because I was easy. I was so easy, already in love with you the minute you walked through that door. And yet I believe there was a different reason to. I think that somehow you knew I would turn you into art one way or another. You knew I would write and sing about you until I couldn't anymore.
I'm trying to stop writing about you but I just can't. Every time my pen touches paper I think of you.
You did something to me, something I won't be able to explain to anyone ever. Something that is beyond words and will only be understood when you experience it yourself.
And somehow you weren't anything above ordinary. Just a boy. A boy who didn't love me back.
I wonder whether you ever cared for me. I guess I'll never find out.
I guess the only thing I really want you to know is: I fell apart to fix you.
From the girl you never loved.
