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He didn't speak to me afterwards. He didn't speak to me the next day, or the next week, or the next three months of summer break.

Finally after months and months of endless torture, I understood. I was his endless supply of sex on legs. I was the one thing he didn't feel guilty about using and destroying. Screw him. He took the one thing he knew I could never get back. And he knew he was the one thing I loved more than anything else and the one thing that knew wouldn't let him feel guilty about using and destroying.

I convinced myself our break up was my fault, that somehow I did something wrong that when he ignored my messages on Facebook that he was busy. I convinced myself that he didn't use me, because I let him. I let him push me around like I was rubber and couldn't feel any of the impact. I let him have sex with me like it wasn't the first time, even though it was.

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