I gave you my heart, and you shot it many times to where it's gushing out blood, not caring where it lands. If dating you meant I was dancing with my feet off the ground, I represented death: Six feet under. You took my fragile love, paid me back with sorrow and misery. You don't realize how much you hurt me, for I think of you every waiting moment, and sometimes in my dreams. I cry when I talk to you through a text on my phone which once had memories on it of you, me, and your lie called Love. You started talking to my friend that was just like you. Music, clothes, and even television shows were the same. You replaced the lie with the real Love and you thought she felt the same. You started together, and both forgot about me. I was not right, not as feminine as others, liking music like you but not enough worth noticing, in your eyes. If having your love meant dancing with her feet off the ground, she was in space, dancing away. You and her were on and off like a main lightswitch, with tears from you, caused by her. You know how I felt, but still don't seem to care. Now your bulb is burnt, and you say it's all my fault. You won't even talk when I call your name. I was still six feet under. You might be full of hate, but I can never rid my mind of you.
This is something I wrote about a year ago, and I found it while I was cleaning my room. I figured I would share it with y'all.
