I hate that
I still waste
even one,
solitary,
single tear
on you.
You no longer make my
heart flutter,
and I haven't cared about you
in months.
But for once
in
our twisted and
gnarled and
rocky
path,
it felt like
I could feel
some
light and warmth.
It felt like
growth. Finally.
But it was just my own,
my enormous rays
reflecting on your
sickly,
dejected being.
And your words slap me
smartly and humiliating
across my face.
And it doesn't even hurt anymore,
you just
disappoint me.
I should know better by now.
To expect a man-child
to stop being a child,
is like
throwing myself
off a bridge,
and expecting wings to grow
from my back.
But I am not a bird.
And I never will be.
So a woman I stay.
