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
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.