Waste

I hung out with that same male friend again. We talked about deep things and we cuddled, and still, I mentioned you. The pain, the hurt, the suffering. It's endless. I am not hopeless this time, but I still wanna know why.

Why you wanted to manipulate me. Why you wanted to hurt me. Why I had to be the one you kissed on the cheek tenderly, and yet I was still nothing. Nothing to you. A memory years and years ago that meant nothing.

I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to not fall for the lie that boys can do when they want sex and then discard. I'm supposed to be "over" it.

But it's hard.

It's hard when you have a dark side so deep that most people cannot see me. They only see the dark.

I thought you were the candle in this heavy place, but you gladly blew it out. Like everyone else.

Like my family. Like my old friends that are worn out like torn jeans.

I'm supposed to be better, I'm supposed to be better.

But I am not.

I do not feel worthless, but I do feel as though I cannot look at any of those memories the same. I see it all through a negative lens.

Your smiles eats through my clothes.

I have nothing left, and all I am is someone to spit upon.

The same man who seemed so eager to see my drawings and my art and admired me as a writer is the same who spit me out like a candy he hated.

Wasn't the right flavor, wasn't the right taste. Let her die and go to waste.