"I was a pair of brand new jeans, not just any jeans; a special pair of jeans. Jeans that were a bit too long on him and a bit too loose --jeans that quite didn't fit, but he still wore me almost everyday because he loved the way I looked on him and loved the way I made him feel. Even though I didn’t seem to quite fit right, he made sure I did. He took a lot of care to keep me in tip top condition and swore he would keep me that way. But after the first accidental tear, he started to take less care of me, He started to drag me all over the floor and use me as if I were a mop to collect dirt off a dusty floor without a care in the world. He stepped all over me -- unknowingly at first. And every time he did, he slightly tore another piece of me. But that tear got bigger every time. And it still hurts. I became so beat up that the newness dissapeared. So now all he sees is a dirty old pair of used and torn up jeans, that doesn't make him feel good, give him comfort, or space he once had. He felt as if I were too tight, too tight that he is unable to breathe. Too tight that he feels smothered under his own skin, so he had to let me go. And because of that one little accidental tear, that one tear that made it all fall apart. That one tear he didn't care enough to sew back together, because he didn’t care enough to keep me together. He forgot his promise and forgot I once mattered. So I got tossed to the back of the closet, as if I were any other pair of jeans. No longer a special pair of jeans, just a pair of old jeans he's out grown and no longer needs. Whoever said it was cool to tear your jeans was wrong. I’m a pair of torn jeans, with a torn heart."

 That was something I wrote when I was quite upset a day or two ago. I know it was a bit wordy, but it was how I felt at the moment. 

 ah, young love.