Over and Over

            Maybe my problem was that I loved you far more than I have ever loved myself. And maybe my problem was not telling you to get out of my life while I still had the air in my lungs because now that you've taken my breath away time after time I can't imagine my life without you. Or maybe my problem was agreeing to keep what we had a secret because now that I want to scream about how much you've hurt me. No one knows that before the hurt, there was love.

            I was loved. For the first time I was loved in return and all I wanted to do was write you songs and poems and tattoo your name to the tip of my tongue because your name was the only thing that ever seemed to escape my lips. My lips longed to always be attached to your skin. Your lips. You hands. Your neck. The spot where your collarbones met.

            My problem was allowing you to use me over and over and over until I thought there would be nothing left of me tomorrow. My problem was telling you it was okay you were confused about me because my feelings for you were crystal clear and I didn't want to admitt to myself that you might not feel the same. My problem was when I knew you didn't want me anymore that I wrapped myself tighter around your fingers, letting you take whatever you wanted, no questions asked. My problem was apologising over and over again for asking questions because you were confused but I was confused because you were confused. And the confusion led to hurt which led to anger which led to me hating myself more than I could ever have hated you for doing this to me.

            Do you want me anymore? Because if you don't I will take what is left of my dignity, pack it into a suitcase and I will leave now because I can't live through another night of not knowing when I wake up if you are still going to love me. But it is my own fault for asking you for one last kiss, for one last hug, for one last time to hear you tell me "I love you more than anything" because I can see through my tear filled eyes that you don't. Not anymore. It is my own fault for telling myself that things will get better and you will love me again and I will be happy again and you will wake up and realise that she meant nothing to you. That I was your everything again. Maybe my problem was betting all I had on us. Maybe my problem was telling you over and over and over that you were my life.

            This time, when I pack up what's left of my confidence into my lockets and what's left of my will to live into my pockets, I will not blame myself. I will blame every time you let me say "I love you more." And I will blame everytime you took my breath away. And I will blame when you told me to keep us a secret. My problem was you using me over and over, not intending to leave enough of me for the next person. My problem was you being confused when you knew deep in your heart that there was never a person who would be better for you than I would. My problem was you tangling me around you fingers and taking anything you wanted from me. And every last kiss, every last hug, every last time you told me you loved me more than anything. It was your fault. It is on you. It is your fault for smiling that stupid smile and telling me to "give it time." "Baby give it time." Time. Time and time again. Time I wasted. Time I cannot ever get back. And time will pass.

            Every second that you waste trying to tell yourself that "everything happens for a reason" I will slip myself back into your head. You will see my smile in the mirror when you are brushing your teeth and you will hear my voice quietly humming everytime you pick up your guitar and try to escape reality. You will still feel my waist brush against yours when we struggled to get closer. To merge ourselves into one being. I was always dying to become a part of you. To wrap myself so tightly around you I became a second skin. And you will feel me become a second skin. I will live inside your mind and become part of your thought process. You will see my eyes on every person, on every redhead of every perfect smiling face, of every girl that you try to pass off as me. You will smell me on your clothes and you will feel my fingers wrap around yours and you will hear my voice echo in your ear, "I love you, I love you, I love you." You.

            You made the mistake. You were the problem. You're problem is now learning to live with your regrets. And I can say I told you so. Because I told you so. Told you so much had happened between us that we had to work it out. We had to fix things. Things fell apart before I could unwrap my fingers from yours to catch them. My problem is that I let myself love you before I learned how to love myself.