My tombstone would read tragedy. But you were no Romeo, and Juliet was not me.
You didn't have to take your life to make me want to end mine.
All you had to do was leave the first time.
Your grave would be dug deep to make up for your shallow heart.
How does it feel when your words make your daughter hang like the art on the walls in the house you left her in last.
How does it feel knowing she can't get passed her own past that you've helped make worse.
How does it feel to take away the pleasure of her first love being her first.

The only gift you gave her was the habit of flinching when others touch her body because she thinks it's you coming back to finish what you started.
She can't bear to look people in the eyes because she can see her own pathetic reflection.
Instead, she glances at their hands to see if they're made for affection rather than being strong enough to hold a grip around her throat like a noose.
It's hard for her to remember a time before the abuse.

She was so young when she learned to hold her breath in presence of a man in fear of reminding him she was there.
A sitting duck with nothing but hope for the drugs to keep him calm but the high never lasted that long.
My mother thought it was a good idea to bring him back into my life.
I think it hurts more when they know what they're leaving behind but i don't mind.
Because being left twice never felt so nice.