I wanted. I wanted you to show up at my door unannounced, bearing gifts just because. I wanted you to tell me that you miss me when we are apart, that I am not the one who’s counting down the minutes until you are home. I wanted you to come over and wanting more than
He said, I bet you write for the likes. I bet you write for the shares, the validation found in a virtual thumbs up. I bet you only love for the sake of material, so much so that you self-sabotage every relationship you’ve ever been in to gain just one more Facebook fan. I bet
I wanted to blame you for everything. And I suppose for the longest time, I did. I did it because it was easier. It was cowardly, I admit; but it was easy. It was so much easier to point the finger, accuse, shift the blame to you than to admit that I was wrong.