asshole
fuck me over
metaphorically but pretend to truely love me
so you can do it literally
hug me when you want it
push me away when you've had enough
i wish i could make you happy by holding you
and not your cock
i should have known from the start
what i was in for
why did i believe "i love you"
when, from the very beginning, those words
didn't match your actions
Because...
is this love?
Our relationship was:
you pick me up
i give you head
and you compare me to a drug
you are "addicted" to me
(back then i took that as a compliment.
what low self-esteem)
then you drop me off at home
i get a call the next time you need your oral "fix"
yeah yeah... that was the past... but you are still a
pervert
fucking internet porn
what do you think i saw when i typed in facebook?
facialabuse dot com
is that how you want me?
is that why you can't even touch me anymore?
well i am so sorry i don't like being humiliated
degraded
abused
(Not by you. Not anymore. Not by anyone, ever again)
asshole
lies again and again
i cry on the other line as you
drink and have fun
no "i love you"s
or "miss you"s
when your friends are around
but plenty when we're alone
and you are in the mood
happy saint patricks day you piece of shit
hypocrite
you were dating her when we started messing around
and you knew i didn't know
asshole
treat me like shit the first half of our relationship
but that never really changed,
did it?
my great aunt is dying and what do you say
to cheer me up
fucking lift my spirits?
"we're all dying"
asshole
thanks for that
i can tell you really care
Author notes
I wrote this approximately 5 years ago. It was obviously a healthy and consistently loving relationship, as you can tell by this poem *rolls eyes in disgust*. There were the good times; there were the kisses that were made of love. I wasn't perfect either. But seriously, I comfort him while he is on the brink of tears because his dog got put to sleep and he tells me "well, we're all dying" when I am on the brink of tears because I find out my great-aunt has cancer?! Come on! This was a rant poem, true, because it was 70% good. But that 30%? The pain behind the words and the events are all real. Years later, that 30% still makes me wince. He helped me learn (unintentionally and the hard way) that sex and love are not synonyms- they can be combined, but they are not the same.
Good times, bad times. Thank god for writing to chronicle such emotions!
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