Here’s what I know to be true:
you love me the most when you’re fucking me,
and never for a second realized
how much you fucked me.
I wish I was a priority to you,
not just a pretty face at your convenience.
I think you enjoy the way I make your heart feel
so much so,
you take advantage of mine.
I give you more of me
to receive less of you.
You say communication is key,
but my outpouring of feelings
falls on the deafest of ears.
Here’s what I know to be true:
I saw a heart before I saw your value as a man
and I regret it.
I regret that the best thing about me
is what gets me hurt the most.
I hate how safe I feel in your arms
when I know it does more damage than good.
I silence myself for you so you can have your peace
while I’m breaking on the inside
pretty on the outside,
so you feel like the luckiest man.
She don’t trip,
she don’t argue,
you a free man.
I know for sure
I was reeled in by the idea of marriage with you.
Oh how you can sell a dream
how quickly I started to live in a nightmare.
They say if you wanted to, you would.
So why don’t you?
I used to question what was wrong with me,
but I see I’m just not for you.
I never was.
I get angry at times
because once it’s gone
it’s not coming back.
I get angry with faith
because I had it in us
for it to falsely show up with hope.
I wish you listened to me
because I know you heard me.
Imagine me breaking down
and your response is silence.
You say I’m describing you as a monster
but if I’m expressing exactly what you do,
the ripping and tearing only I feel,
what kind of Loch Ness monster are you?
I guess it’s hard
when you don’t see the inner reflection
and only your handsome looks.
Remember the time you told me I’d be your wife
while frolicking single on the outside
that’s the type of lies a monster likes.
Here’s what I know to be true:
the broken pieces of me still pray for you.
They still wish you peace.
Those pieces fight not to become sour
because everything I am
was made to love and care
and you could’ve never been my perfect pair.
I hope you sleep
on the reality of what you let slip through your hands,
and know that fixing this
would be like grasping a palm full of sand.
Brielle K D
