Poetry is Cheating

I once had an ex who told me writing poetry was cheating.
In the same breath, he'd tell me that words were merely words.
That we shouldn't hold onto them so tightly.

Yo-yo opinions of a manchild who'd be the first to call you contradictory.
But naturally, I would be in the wrong simply because my words were capable of making him feel something.

Because reading those words I'd spill late at night onto a takeout napkin
made him realize what true love really looked like.
And that he could never measure up.

Insecure dilusions deep enough to drown his demons, but yet somehow never quite deep enough to find the truth.
That it was always him who was the problem.

I envy those who know not of psychological warfare and words that pierce like poisoned arrows.
Those who've never tippy-toed over eggs shells as if breaking them somehow meant something big.

It was always too much to spend my days feeling worthless and empty.
So, I finally just agreed, "okay, maybe Poetry is cheating."

And let him take away another piece of me.