Real Stories


You have to forget him. 

You have to put him out of your head. 

At least for now. 

No more texts that resemble small novels. You’ve said all that you could and your words are falling on deaf ears; besides, he doesn’t like to read, anyway. As much as it hurts, he doesn’t care. Your pain, your heartbreak, your tears, they mean nothing to someone who is empty and void of emotion. I know it hurts, trust me, I do, but he isn’t and may have never been in a place to be receptive of your feelings. 

I’m sure it felt like it on the days he cuddled with you, the nights he held you or backed up so you could nestle perfectly against his back. All the times he kissed your forehead. Perhaps he was saying goodbye all along. 

All the times you’d catch him smiling at you, the butterflies that took up residence in your intestines…it felt like love. But it wasn’t. He doesn’t know what love is.  

He seeks temporary satisfaction in females who don’t value themselves. Females who will do any and everything he asks as long as he gives them a fragment of his attention. Females who have no values, zero standards. 

They’re like cars with too many miles, their tires have no tread because too many people have ridden on them. They’ve been replaced and rotated too many times. 

They are coasters. 

Place holders for temporary entertainment. Soaking up whatever condensation he leaves behind. They’ll never hold a significant place in his life. 

But you…you were supposed to be the one. The one who endured his growing pains, stood by his side through all his mistakes no matter how many times he dropped you, shattered you into pieces. You just kept putting yourself back together. But each time you rebuilt yourself to be better, to be who you thought he needed, you lost shards of yourself. 

Rays of insecurity reflect off broken pieces of glass, because you’re looking at those he’s turned to thinking there’s something wrong with you but there isn’t. 

The problem is you don’t belong here. They don’t make your kind anymore. You are a limited edition. 

Yet here you stand, waiting. Bloody and bruised with your heart in your hand. Running out of patience but refusing to leave.

Like this post? View similar content here: I Love You, I Love You Not

by Kennedy Thompson

I've always loved the arts and began writing when I was eight-years old. I believe art is a beautiful way of expressing yourself and an amazing form of therapy be it performing, written or visual. I enjoy traveling, cooking, spending time with friends and family and a good glass of wine.

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