I wasn't friends with you but you tried.

I was friends with your sister, but not as a choice. 

My family thought you were okay, they never saw you. 

I saw you everyday. 

I saw the way you looked at me.

Spoke to me.

Touched me. 

You told me my mother knew, and I believed it so I was fine with it.

I brushed it off. 

Till you told a lie, and another, then another. 

You told me to do things, then one day you took it all back. 

Tried to push me into a single kiss that I never did. 

They don't know, and I'll never tell them from my lips.

But I can speak from a piece of paper. 

Because of you I cry when I write sometimes. 

Because of you I think too much about everything. 

Because of you I don't know what is good and what is bad.

And I hate you for it.