I hate you. I hate how thinking about you makes me feel like the lowest person on earth. I hate how wanting to be next to you when I feel alone makes me feel dirty. I hate that I spent every waking moment of my life loving you more than I loved myself and my family... and you replaced me so easily. I hate that you waited until I had nothing left at all to give you financially before you dropped the bomb. I hate that I believed it when you said that there was no one else, when there so obviously always was someone in the wings. I hate feeling bitter and vindictive because I hope your marriage fails.
I hate that you have a little baby girl to call your own when I spent a night in crippling mental anguish because I miscarried your baby. I miscarried alone, hundreds of miles away from you, and it was the only sign I had ever been pregnant. That I *lost* a baby before I could ever really feel the joy and love from having it. I hate that I have moments where I'm in the shower, and I look down and see my stomach, and all I can see is that god damned night where I curled as small as I possibly could in the tub and cried myself hoarse while mourning the baby I had wanted so badly, and you always told me that you weren't ready! The irony of how often we had our fun without protection and I never got knocked up, and then the ONCE we do it after we broke up and I end up pregnant is NOT lost on me.
But three months after you break up with me to be with another girl (who promptly dumps you, yes, I DID laugh), you're with another woman, and bam. You propose to her out of the blue, and then I find out why. You knocked her up. She has a two year old, a one year old, and now she's got yours. Oh, I hope it's yours. I also hope it isn't, because I'd find that just as hilarious... because now you're trapped. I really hope you love her, because I know how easy you can lie through your teeth about your feelings. Because you're never getting rid of her, or your kids.
Oh, and don't send me a letter on Valentine's Day, saying you miss me and want to talk. I'm done with you. I hate you. If I had half a chance, I'd probably punch you, and then knee you in the groin until I was certain you'd be sterile. You walked out on me. You threw me out of your life. I'm staying out of it.
Happy fucking Valentine's, you son of a bitch.
