Everything that disgusted me about myself,

you found and exploited it,

ripped the confession from my lips

and proclaimed to the world about the true me.

...and I miss it.

I still remember every insult that you tossed at me

every jeer about my sex

and that by being a woman I could achieve no real goal.

I still remember every time you called me pathetic.

...and I miss it.

Long chats that we had are just a fadding memory,

like the time I stared you down,

and the time you almost made me hate you.

But I won't forget the time you made me cry,

...and I miss it.

You left me with a million questions, a million "why's?"

Why did you think that suicide was the only way out?

Why was it that all that was left to me was a short sentence?

Didn't I mean more to you than just a deliverer of your final message?

This feeling of insecurity that I've always had

returns with full force whenever I think of you,

and I can't help but wonder that if you see me like this

do you smile or frown when I realize that I've missed it