Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Pretty

She told me I was pretty.

I wasn’t sure if I should accept,

or apologise again,

for a mistake I didn’t know I’d made,

until she made it clear,

creeping into the tiny temple I’d built,

inside of my head,

where I learned to believe.

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She didn’t mean to invade,

it’s just one of those things,

because life is as fair as my raven hair,

and you were good for me,

until I saw that you weren’t.

She told me I was pretty,

that I’d find somebody new,

but after investing so much,

yet still ending up destitute,

I wasn’t sure I wanted her to be right.

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I wanted you,

still,

sorrowful and set ablaze,

placing the books I wrote for you,

back on the shelf,

and then in a new home,

the fireplace,

cursing the gift you said belonged to me,

for being regifted,

rescinded,

and,

FUCK

I still want you,

and maybe you want me too,

maybe I am so destitute,

that I am at peace with my destiny,

being locked away,

in a hidden folder on your phone,

so that she doesn’t know that you’re divorced,

totally over for her,

feeling things you never felt before.

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You keep me to yourself,

so that she won’t know that you never loved her,

or that I was your first and truest love,

so she won’t know that I’m so fucking different,

and that you said you loved me,

after you stared at death,

and realised I was the only one you lived for…

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I still want you,

still,

wondering if your words were ever true.

She told me I was pretty.

She didn’t even sound angry.

She sounded like there were lots like me.

She told me I was pretty.

Your wife called,

and she told me I was pretty.


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