I regret every word I’ve written about you. All the times I’ve sat down with a pen in my hand and a blank sheet of paper in front of me. The paper was all but blank within a matter of minutes. All the restless nights I had because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I couldn’t stop writing down every thought. I didn’t sleep much during those months. All the days I spent in math class comparing your eyes to stars and your skin to satin. You were so distracting; I barely passed. All the letters I sent you, detailing how much I loved you, how lucky I was to know someone like you and to be able to call you mine. I constantly ran out of postage stamps. Once I started writing about you I couldn’t stop. You weren’t just a human-being. You were a work of art. You were living, breathing poetry. But you were more than that… You were a waste of time, a waste of talent, a waste of feelings. You weren’t worth a single word. But here’s two: Fuck You.