I am sick and tried.
Of you.
All you do is use me for your own good. You try to get the information that you need with your sly moves. You are always there, ready to pounce on your prey. Anything you do is to get something away from me.
Congrats. You got what you have been wanting for years. Happy?
I'm not.
I lost him. My one and only true friend who I shared everything with. The one person who I knew would never leave my side is miles away from me if though he is just down the street. Whenever we talk, it's distant. You are always there as the elephant in the room. I lost the person I spent all year with, sharing secrets and laughing in the rain, walking home after the long days of high school, the person I would talk to the late hours of the night just to ask for help and someone who understood me.
Are you happy? Are you glad you scared him away from me? Sorry girl, your scheme didn't work. Instead of running away from me to you, he ran from both of us. Are you happy that you threw me on the ground? Does it give you some satisfaction that you ruined my friendship?
I am so done with you. You and all your pretty little mind games. I told you what I wished I said long ago in the nicest way possible, boiled down to one simple word: stop. I guess you didn't like that. You threw another punch, I took a step back, letting you have what you wanted because I am done fighting. Dealing with you isn't what I asked for. I had no idea you had the hots for my best friend. I didn't know that you wanted to cut me out of his life, sorry. Sorry that your mind games didn't work on him either. Ever thought that just, maybe, he really does not want to talk to you? Maybe the fact that your overly desperate female act isn't working?
What are you going to do now? You lost both of your hobbies. I would say sorry for causing you pain, because I want to be the better person-something my mother taught me ever since I could walk. But there is something you don't know about me, I never, ever say things I don't mean.
That's why I am not sorry.
