you say you love me, but if that is what you call love, then boy do you sometimes love me wrong.
like a little girl who squeezed her pet rabbit to death in her arms, for fear it would get away,
I am suffocating. please, let me go.
you, whose 'acts of love' make so indebted, for to act in love for you is to always be owed something in return. i who do not now believe in the unconditional,
and because i understand damaged people will then raise damaged children
what i really want is a word of support, for someone to pat me on the head now and then and tell me, good job, you've tried hard. you're doing the right thing. but instead, every time you called me monster, shameful and told me i gave you nothing to be proud of,
spread like poison without an antidote in my veins
and in the end it was me who fought silently to pull myself out of crumbling chasms of insecurity and struggle free of worded cages
you say recently you have been happier, and i am glad that you are so. but to you happiness is like an independent notion, separate and exclusive. i am not happy. and i have not been for a long time now. and you still haven't noticed.