I never loved you.

There, I said it. I never loved you. You go out there, and play the victim of a heartless vixen, but remember that you were the fool, not me.

It was always for the writing. Page after page of your thoughts, your feelings, you, just ready for me to take. The way the strings of light from the window hit your face in the early morning. The conversation between you and your sister and the way you lit up at the mention of her visiting us. The clearest tears, so innocent and forlorn, streaming down your face as you left the house.

I loved to write about you.