little girl in bloom.

we were so young. falling in and out of each other. i think about how you used to smell, too strong, too overpowering. and me, i smelled like bitter fruit. the smell of my youth. i don't smell like that anymore.
i've been listening to the music i listened to every day before i first met you. you were so critical, so ready to tell me every single thing i knew was wrong. but i was so right.

oh boy, little boy, when will you ever know?
i love the imagery you have left me with, the memories.
but i don't love you.
i'm so sorry, but i just don't love you.

get your own ideas, dickhead.

it's mine. though it's not tangible, it belongs to me. and you and your girlfriend, a face (under that tangle of hair) i vaguely feel warmth towards, you and your girlfriend can go listen to anything else you want. make love to anything that moves you. dance to our old song at your fucking wedding. shit, i don't care.
but that,
that's mine. not your's. not mine and your's.
just mine mine mine.

and you know it.
you know it and you know that every time you listen to it, you're going to think of me. and i hope sometimes you slip up and say my name when listening to it. i hope she doesn't notice because we all know what a drunk she is. but you do, you notice, and it fucking drives you insane.

but that's what you get for becoming everything i ever was.

no exceptions.

i hate everyone.

and myself.