My Little Works

Narrative

A year

I gave him a year of my support, my kindness, and my energy, just for him to write me out of the narrative

I was there for him throughout his ups and downs, yet I stand with nothing to show for it, I stand empty-handed as I've been rewarded nothing

I suppose that's my own fault, the biggest gift he could have given me was his friendship and even that basic promise is now hollow in any affinity

I was always in his corner yet now he barely gives me the time of day. I don't mean to sound dejected, I've come back from much worse, but this cuts deeper than imagined, simply because I never did

I never thought someone could be so callous as to hurt me, but go on like my wounds aren't of his creation

I loved him yet I have now, no place in his story, because no matter what I felt or feel now, he has taken me out his story, no matter what he did, I have lost my voice in this stalemate of a conversation

And no matter how many spouts of justified anger, of firm hatred, of pained sadness I go through, the fact of the matter, is he couldn't be more indifferent and so when he wrote me out of the narrative, I wasn't given a second thought.