I can't believe I'm still writing letters to you.

Sometimes when I sit in the bathroom when the whole house is asleep, and I think to myself, what if I insist on ignoring the feelings that came to me so strongly while I was away? Would things have turned out different then? Would I still be loving you like I used to?

Maybe the reason why it turned out this way, was because you made me love you. Maybe it should have worked the other way round. I should have noticed you first and appreciated you first. Maybe then, things would change.

Maybe, maybe.

But I guess it's stupid to think about that now. I hate the way you cry, the way you hug me (it makes me neck hurt so bad), I hate the way you hold my hand (so glad we don't have to do it anymore), I hate the way you touch my face. I can't stand your skin on mine.

I hate the way you talk, and lisp. I hate the way you walk, and run, and cross your leg when you sit. I hate the way you stick your tongue out when the food is too spicy. I hate the way you always speak English to strangers. I hate your hair. I hate your lips. I hate your braces. I hate how boney your fingers are. I hate how you stare at me.

I suppose one day you'll find someone who loves you enough to tolerate all of you and who you are. I guess that's what love is all about, loving enough to tolerate the imperfections you have for the rest of your life.

Maybe I might never find the love of my life.

Because I'm a motherfucking, cock-sucking slut who will never love anyone more than herself.