Like I Do.

I’ve always held bags of broken bones close to my chest. Even when people told me you’d burn holes through my soft petals I always was willing to protect. You don’t know him like I do. Not together but having sex I thought it meant we were okay, my mistake. I gave you pieces of my mind space and when you breathed heavy and cracked the bubble that held its place, I fabricated pieces of what was left, melted it together and handed it over all over again. You don’t know him like I do. Now he wants to take it slow and get to know the me that went missing for a week. But you didn’t say that before we had sex and I on repeat asked: Are you sure? The answer was clear I love you, you love me... or so I’d hope and think. You don’t know him like I do. Giggles over photoshoots and shit. You continue reclining ever so laxed and I’m confused because I know this isn’t the full strength of love that you can exude. It’s a push to my mental pull. Suddenly, they’re dating. They can’t call my psycho for being psychic. Looking into the future with a magnified lens you used me just like your past tense, B, M, aligned with JROTC okay with splitting dick, attention and alliances. I didn’t want to become them. No disrespect to them but I’m special in a light they only see in lost men that dull the shine in themselves. For them it’s enough to be okay with being put on his shelf. Fucking with my mental health until it gave up and finally nutted words, I surrender. Pulled your leaky guilt trip out and laughed. Thinking to yourself, I can still have her when I want her. Sweet little angel that’s too good for this world, still so gullible under all that fire. She’ll never learn. You don’t know him like I do.