Maybe one day you'd know,
How much those words,
Spoken with or without intent,
Jesting or testing,
How much it hurt,
How much I had to withhold
How much I hate myself for it,
How much tears I shed,
How long I took to regain composure,
How easily I cracked.

Yet you're not even a friend,
Merely an acquaintance.

Because of the semblance of truth,
Because of that tiny hope of acceptance,
Because of who they said you are,
Because it was rubbing palm after palm
of salt into my raw wound.

Yet you didn't know,
How much it hurt then,
And how I changed now,
And I still hate myself,
For giving a ****,
with words spoken with such ease.