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I remember what if felt like to hold you after you came out to me that night. In the basement of our friends house, and you wept in my arms. I don't know if it was worry or relief you were feeling. I was only the first person to know, there were still many more you had to tell.
I like to think I was supportive. Telling you it would be okay, and that I was proud of you.
Then I remember everything that happened after that. The way you would twist everything I said into some sort of insult. As if I was your enemy. A villain. The antagonist.
I was your friend.
You weren't mine.
Lately, I've been feeling the urge to scream. I need somewhere to put all this anger. I feel like I've just been storing it in my gut. An infection. I think it's killing me.
How could you be on their side about this? How could you say those things about me? All those blatant lies? You knew they weren't true. I showed you who I was. You knew it wasn't that.
I was a true friend to you. And I dumbly expected nothing in return. I didn't expect you to be a good friend back. But idk, I guess I didn't expect you to salt my wound either. I mean, I offered you my home for fucks sake. I was literally going to be the aunt to your future children.
I've been wanting to scream until my lungs give out and punch holes in every wall of this house. But right now, thinking about how much I gave. How little I recieved. Idk. I just want to cry.
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