I begged for his forgiveness like I begged for him to stay.

I stripped my pride and laid it at his feet as I grovelled and explained and apologized. I stripped my pride and let him step on it when I sang and he slept and I talked and he oh-ed.

Because I wounded his, so I guessed I deserved this.

I was wrong, I knew, but did it really go this far? That I had to accept every bit of his razor sharp words, knife by knife?

I loved him. Twice.

I told him I loved him. The guy either didn't notice, or didn't care. I wonder which was worse.

I didn't come to love him for this. I didn't forgive and forget for this. Now I remember every bit. Stupid letters and stories I wrote, endless pathetic text messages I sent, sleepless nights and silent screams. All those pride I lost back then but found by standing tall in front of him was now scattered all around the floor again.

I didn't come to love him for this.

They say second chances are like offering another shot after the first one missed. I gave him a second bullet. I believed this time, I would be good enough for him. I believed this time I wont get hurt. Looks like life just continues to prove me wrong.

I know I deserved it, his words, the way it felt like blows and punches landed on my abdomen. But I never figured what I did was unforgivable to the point that he would not just kill me with it, he had to let me suffocate slowly. Let the pain sink it, minute by minute, second by second.m

How come I feel more like Stan and less like Slim? I was supposed to be the bad person. Not that I would drive my car and drown myself in a river.

The second bullet just buried itself on my chest. I wonder if the person who held the gun would read this. After all, I was the one who let him down. He didn't have to.

I didn't come to love him for this.

I didn't want love to be like this.

3.15pm Thursday