And in the absence of my own love
I found it wasn't hate that was the worst
Nor was it loathe
Oh god,
It was use.
It was the way he told me he loved me
The way he let me think him a saint
My coping method,
He let me remember I was alive.
But it was all use,
Not love, not hate.
It was use and abuse and the staining of tile at 3 am.
YOU ARE READING
Silent Screams
PoetryPoems I wrote myself. All of them are original. (Can be triggering.)
