i messaged you the other day.
i told you i was snorting cocaine,
and you said you knew that was a lie.
i asked you why you didn’t believe me;
you said because you know me,
but do you really know me?
do you know i spend my days watching anime in my room?
do you know i have a book full of poetry i’ve been writing just for you?
do you know i have a character of myself under my bed from when i was 7?
do you even know my favorite color is pink?
even if you don’t know these things,
you should’ve known that leaving me was going to destroy me
and break me in ways i didn’t even think i could be broken.
so if you really knew me,
you just were out to hurt me.
knowing me is not something i would be proud of.