I'm still in love with you.
Yet whenever I think of you, all I can think of is blame. How you blame me, for what you are, for what you're not. But those things aren't a product of circumstance, I was not the catalyst. You have allowed me to be that crutch, to make all the pain my fault, and only when I'm not around do you decide you can breath again, as if I were dead weight off your chest.
But I can't make you better, no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I've tried. From giving you my utmost to leaving you be. Neither of those seemed to satisfy you, nor did any of the variants in between.
Its strange to me that the person who taught me that only I could fix myself and no one else could would refuse to acknowledge that truism.
I'm holding out hope that such an epiphany will one day occur to you.
That maybe someday soon you'll see that I'm not such a villain after all.
That all I wanted was to return tenfold the love you have given me.
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