I can forgive a lot of things. I have forgiven a lot of things. More than anyone else would have forgiven.
How the fuck am I supposed to forgive this and still manage to maintain some semblance of dignity?
I am not a doormat, though I've played one in the past, when it seemed that a doormat was needed.
I did what was necessary, or at least what seemed necessary at the time, not because of what those things were, but because of who needed them.
Because of who needed me.
And I liked it. Loved it, even. I lived for those opportunities.
Of whatever the fuck you want to call it. Friendship? Something more? Something less? Something else?
I don't care what you call it. Just pick something. And don't say nothing. Don't you fucking dare say nothing.
We may no longer exist, but I still do exist. Barely.
And what's left of me deserves more than this. Even the worst person on Earth would deserve more than this.
More than nothing.