You are my post popular poem

You tell me you regret her, that you wished I was your first,
I look at you with distain because you know the mistakes I've made,
I wonder,
Will you say to the next one,
"I wish you were my first."
It seems to me quite strange because you once loved her like you did I,
But Ill tell you this,
I will not regret you, I will not tell them Id wished you were they, because although we loved and lost, all that matters is the first.

You used to tell me how you didn't like the way I lacked a sense of intimacy,
How I wouldn't hold you the way you wanted to be held,
The way she held you,
I wouldn't kiss you much in public,
So you didn't give me a chance to get away,
You would hold me tighter and my escape was found within the lock of our mouths,
I liked it,
But I always wondered what normal really is,
Were you like this with her or was she normal,
Do you crave the touch of women who lack the intimacy you desire, or do you simply like playing our little game,

As of late I've tried to touch you more, say words which feel like rosebuds,
So sweet and elegantly delicate,
And the more I show this foreign concept if an intimate relationship,
The more I fall in love,
The more I fall into your trap of smiles and fingers running through my hair,
The more I crave your kisses, your touch,
What happened to me?
Because darling,
I'm afraid.

You tell me I'm beautiful,
pretty,
gorgeous,
But why?
Because you are not tricking me,
But only yourself,
You think,
"If I tell her she's beautiful, maybe I will grow to believe it too."
Well sweetheart, it is working?
You ignore the flaws of my body, my face,
Only to deceive your own mind,
Because if you saw my flaws you might no longer love me,
You chose to ignore my acne,
Because if you didn't, you're afraid you would leave,
You chose to ignore my protruding chin when I smile,
Because you wish you had someone who could smile sunlight rays,
You chose to ignore the redness in my skin,
Because you want to believe what matters is within,
But is it working dear boy?
The more you use the word beautiful,
Does it make you any more confident being around someone who's not?

When the boy said.
"I love you"
I nearly wept the tears which have been filling since the last one left,
Unsure of my feelings I turn away and look to the ground,
Searching,
For something,
To distract myself,
I see the garbage, with the used wrappers from our affairs,
Wondering, maybe that's why,
Because why would a boy love me for any other reason but my body?
Because I have been taught to beware those three words,
For those are the words which are spoken when he wants more,
More than your touch,
Or cress,
But your lips,
His, on you hips,
For when the boy said "I love you"
I was confused and concerned,
Because why would he,
Could he,
Love someone like me.

I call myself a friend,
The end,
The end,
Every friend has it's end,
It is nearer than you think,
For I am the friend who cared too much,
And you,
Too little,
I tried,
You cried,
Screaming "how could you,"
I question your intentions,
For you think I cared too less,
But it was you indeed,
For I went on years no sleep,
Watching,
Waiting,
Making sure I would wake up with a best friend,
And I cried,
When it rang true,
The end of you had come too soon,
For I was the friend who had lost what I loved,
And you were the friend who lost everything,

I'm something borrowed, from he before him, and him before he,
You're something new, untouched, untainted by mine hands or hers,
You're not the old, for I am new, to you too,
I shall't be blue, for I am no longer 'borrowed' by you,  the 'new,' out with the old, say you,