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.
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.
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rescinded,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.
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…
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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