CLXXXIV.

If you think this is about you,
Then it probably fucking is.
Here's to the hearsay
That tells me what you've been up to.
Here's to the late nights
With your legs spread.
Here's to every time you said
I still meant a god damn thing.
You're gone, and that's how I want it
But you can still make me bleed.
Still make me feel cheap.
And I will never not loathe you for that.
So here's to paper hearts,
Looking at stars,
And burning every feeling that ever mattered.