I used to tell myself I hated you.

I would whisper it under my beath when you walked by and scream it until my lungs ached in the rain.

I would write it on my skin and on paper until your name stained everything precious to me.

And I didn't realize it then, but I'd fallen into the trap you so carefully set out;

I'd let you control my life with yout presence so my every waking moment was filled with thoughts of you, and even more so my dreams.

It's taken me a long time, far too long, but I think I've finally found my clarity.

You're not special, though I'm certain you'd like to think so.

You're not the perfect, honest character I'd envisioned in my mind;

Deluded as I was, you made me sick 

and sad

and angry.

You were detrimental and that's what hurt;

The disappointment hurt.

Yes, I hate that I spent so long trying to rebuild my life after your aftermath, but I no longer hate you.

No, because to hate you would mean you still hold a stake in my heart, and please believe me when I say this:

You will never again be that damn important.