Fourteen short lines are enough to show a speaker being told that something that mattered to them did not matter to the other person. The poem appears under a username, with no biography attached, so the words on the page are all there is to go on. They are enough. The speaker begins by saying "I never wanted to be a fling" and ends by shrugging that the lover was not the first and will not be the last. The central idea is that hurt can borrow the language of the person who caused it. Whether that borrowing is real strength or a form of armour is the question the poem leaves open.
The shape is neatly balanced: a three-line stanza, a four-line one, another three, another four. Rhyme gives the poem its backbone, and it falls on the words that matter most. "Fling" and "thing" bracket the line "it broke my heart when you said", so the emotional centre of the opening is literally enclosed by the lover's vocabulary. Those two words are well chosen. A fling is something tossed, light and quick, and "thing" is about the vaguest noun English has. The lover's phrase "a one time thing" shrinks an experience until it has no shape at all. These are also the only words in quotation marks, which makes them the one place the lover's voice breaks into the poem.
The middle section turns from hurt to suspicion. "You were just doing it for the enjoyment" is a long, slightly clumsy line, and the speaker answers it with "was it for your own entertainment?" The two rhyme only through their shared ending, "-ment", but that is enough to make the speaker's question sound like an echo with a sting in it. "Entertainment" implies a performance with an audience, and the speaker has suddenly become the show. Then comes "now I'm getting scared", in the present tense, as though the realisation is arriving as we read. The fear is never explained, which makes it feel more honest. The stanza closes on a flat, resigned rhyme: "guess you never truly cared". The word "guess" is telling. The speaker is not accusing, just quietly arriving at a conclusion nobody wanted.
The third stanza holds the poem's most tangled thought. "I don't wish to forget" is a surprising thing to say to someone who has hurt you, and it suggests the memory still has value. Yet the question that follows, "how should I go on / without a thought of regret?", can be read two ways. It might mean "how can I move forward without regret weighing on me?" or "how can I carry on without regretting any of it?" The poem does not choose, and that ambiguity is the most truthful moment in it, because the speaker clearly does not know either. The rhyme of "forget" and "regret" ties the two feelings together so tightly that wanting one without the other seems impossible.
Then the tone shifts. "To be real, it was a blast" borrows the lover's breezy register, and "blast" carries a double edge: it means great fun, but it is also an explosion, brief and loud and followed by damage. The shortest line in the poem, "but remember", is a hinge. Its single pause echoes "forget" from three lines earlier, as if the speaker is now insisting that the memory be shared. The final couplet-like rhyme of "blast" and "last" delivers the exit line. "You weren't the first / and you're certainly not the last" restores some power to the speaker, who now has a past and a future that do not revolve around this person. It might also be bravado, a brave face put on quickly because the earlier lines were so exposed. The lowercase, unpunctuated lines, which read like a message typed fast and not revised, support either reading.
The poem is worth reading because it does not tie up its feelings. It lets hurt, suspicion, nostalgia and defiance sit side by side in under a hundred words, in plain speech that anyone could have said aloud. Its quiet argument is that being treated casually by someone is painful precisely because of how little it costs them. The speaker's last move, answering carelessness with a careless-sounding line, may be the closest this person can get to self-protection.