Hey, love

Querido amor,

I know now why its called heartache.
No bump, bruise, or burn could ever top this.

The only way to express my torment is through this letter
that I'll never have the grit to show you;
Only because you. . . you, my love, are the assailant.

I'm not sure of the exact moment in which my love
decided to become a martyr for your attention,
but its clear to me, and also it, that we both mistook your affliction for appreciation.

If you didn't want the responsibility of occupying my heart,
then why the hell did you ask permission to hold it?

17 missed calls on your phone, 14 of them are from me.
I'm not being clingy, just assuming my position as your girlfriend. Remember her?
I know I belong to you, but did you ever belong to me?


Or were you always hers?