I never sent it....

One of your many pet peeves; being interrupted, which is almost irrelevant to the fact that I am going to ask you to wait until I am done, before jumping to any conclusions and before deciding I’m wrong. As always.  There was a time in our relationship when you actually cared what your actions did to me. Or there was a time when you you pretended to care anyway; that time is gone. Completely. To start off on my ranting I’d like to clearly point out the fact that you don’t really like anything about me. My hobo gloves, my hair, my shoes, my teeth, my personality, my friends, my habits, or my hobbies. You basically hate EVERYTHING that defines me as a person, and up until recently I had been convinced you were worth it all. If you didn’t like it—I didn’t do it or have it. Worth leaving all my friends behind for; worth leaving my independence and individuality behind for; worth giving up acting and everything, other than you, that has ever made me happy.  You walk all over me, and expect it to be ok. You know I can’t leave you, you know I’m dependent on you, and you take advantage of it every single day. You know how much I hate disappointing you, so if there’s something you don’t feel like doing, but want done, you use me. Plain. and simple. You think it’s ok to make me carry your shit around, get up to fill your drink when ever your thirsty. You think it’s ok, that we always settle for doing what you want to do. [ I suppose I’d be in hell if we didn’t—as if I’m not already.] You hated my friends. Didn’t want me around anyone but you, and once I finally adapted to giving up each and every one of them… you called me clingy… and said I crowded your space. You hate how outgoing I am. You find me extremely annoying, immature and childish, for a multitude of reasons. You think I can’t make smart decisions on my own  [and maybe your right. ] You treat me like a kid, like I am completely helpless without you. You act like everyday I should be grateful to be with you because I put you through hell. You act like being with you is some kind of privilege that I’ll never be able to understand.  You don’t respect me, at all, or appreciate me. You don’t even bother trying to be nice to me because it’s a “ waste of your time.” You will ALWAYS choose your friends over me, even though you don’t give a single damn about anyone who breathes other than yourself. You use anyone and everyone, and expect them to bow down at your feet regardless, and they do, and I did. You say I am a fool for trusting people. A coward. It takes fucking COURAGE to trust people. It takes fucking guts to wake up every morning thinking, “ this person could screw me over, ruin my life if they wanted, but I trust them, and I’m willing to take the risk.” So don’t act like you know a single thing about that. You don’t open up to anyone, not even me, because your afraid of getting close to someone. Afraid that someone will actually discover what you are.  Not only that, you are never to blame; for anything. It’s always me; your mother; our relationship. Someone else, because you can never see what you’re doing wrong. You lie to me like you need to free yourself of the daily doses of poison you swallow on your own free will.  Everything; big things; even unnecessary things. You’re a hypocrite. You get mad if I don’t tell you one day I hang out with one guy, but you think it’s ok to sleep in the same bed as a girl (one you used to have a crush on) because “ it’s not like that at all.” It’s not even that you did, it’s that you didn’t see anything WRONG with doing it. It’s that suddenly, I can’t be myself around you; I can’t talk to you about anything because you are fucking looking for an excuse to break up with me. The only reason you’re with me is for the sake of guilt, and pity. Oh dear god, if I leave her, her poor ‘lil wrists will bleed for months. Hunnie. They’ve been pouring blood since I met you, and it’s funny how you only want me when there’s something wrong; something to FIX. As long as I’m with you; there will be something to fix. Your expectations of a person are unreasonable, and unrealistic. You get pissed when I doubt your love, but you refuse to express it in anyway. You’re not affectionate? No, of course not. Not unless your dick is in my mouth and suddenly I’m fucking gorgeous. Suddenly I’m at your house cleaning your fucking pool not knowing why the grime is around my waist and you’re with your friends inside, and why the fuck I haven’t told you any of this yet, and why I’m making myself cry, and how I’ll never send this; at least not any time soon. All I do now is cry;  and let you down. Back when this all started you said I’d be the one to leave you…. Why did you let me fall in love with you… Why did you make all those promises to me… only to tell me later we had to be realistic. You started saying things like “ I can see you pulling a Virginia Tech when we break up.” YES. You said the word WHEN. You said I was too cute, and it was going to make things harder. HM? Harder to what? You said we could still be friends. I already know that’s what you want. A fallback, so using me will become that much easier? I can’t have a myspace because people on there judge me before they know me, and it makes me depressed. If I were you, I would be concentrating on the things here, that are making me die a little more on the inside each and every mother fucking day. I’m sorry that talking to me makes you sick, sorry I always wanna know what’s wrong, sorry I want to say goodnight. Sorry that other names stain my skin
as a fucking reminder of what I used to have; and never will again. Sorry I feel like this entire year is going to be a fucking waste because you’re already moving on to bigger and better things. Maybe I refuse to let you see this because when you finish I already KNOW you aren’t going to apologize. You aren’t going to feel guilty; you’re not even going to care about what you just read. You are oing to dig through my words, as if they were TRASH, and easy to write, and you are going to find something--anything in here that you can twist around. Then you will leave me; and it’ll be my fucking fault. As always. You’ll tell me in that sarcastic tone that makes me gnash my teeth together. “ No Katie, you’re right. It’s me, go ahead and blame me. Go ahead and grind your teeth in anger.” But I already do. I blame you for not giving a FUCK about any of this for too long. I hate the fact that you could lose me, and you would still act like everything was ok [and how maybe it wouldn’t be acting.] I’m sick of you convincing everyone else that we were so fucking meant to be when you don’t even fucking believe a single word your saying, and the only thing I know is the way your hands feel around my throat. A slap in the face. An “Im sorry, I was joking.” Sometimes jokes just stop being funny. Other times they never were to begin with. But everyone is laughing, smiling, and so are you. Your just like everyone else. Everyone you hate. Everything you hate about me in between your fake smile .Maybe I just find it slightly ironic that you’re trying so hard to save me from everyone else.
You’re so busy thinking everyone else treats me like shit that you don’t even bother to stop and realize I’m reaching for your hand, and being ignored. I’m crying out for you, and being hushed. I’m fucking crumbling under the weight of your words because I just said I loved you, and you told me to shut up. Now, I have to wait for the words. Now it’s a fucking surprise to hear you call me pretty girl, or lean in for a kiss when someone just might happen to see. [But God forbid anyone finds out you fell for someone like me.] You’re ashamed to be with me. Maybe it hurts because I know when… WHEN.. you dump me, you’re going to get it right next time, and it won’t be with me, it won’t be in Hollywood, and somehow, suddenly, despite everything; you’ll be way too good for me again; and I’m not even fucking happy…. Because you don’t want me to be happy… I wonder when you will muster up enough balls to just tell me we’re over, just so that, FOR ONCE, something will make some fucking sense-- YOU won’t be lying, and I can spend the rest of high school trying to fucking move on and survive --before I no longer can.