I was angry at you. I was so angry that I wished you'd be haunted by me in every woman you love after you met me. I wished you'd see me in their eyes and hear my voice in their words. I wished you'd think of me when she said the words you used to hear coming out of my mouth. I wished you'd taste the filth and you'd be begging for my forgiveness just for one peaceful night without my ghost trailing you closely.
But then I realized that I was angry because you didn't love me the way I loved you: fiercely, passionately, crazily. I was angry at myself for loving someone whom I knew would never love me back.
