I wish you would
have came to me
before you let them
tell you about me,
before I got to tell you
about me.
I bet you they told you
about the boy I let
kiss me one too
many times over the
summer, but what
you didn't let me tell
you was that he was
my band-aid to cover
the bruises from another
man, and how I
cried every night,
because I wish that wasn't
the case.
And I bet you listened to
him call me names,
but you never let me
tell you he was the
one who picked up the
pieces in his kitchen,
every night at 3am,
in the spring,
after the other man
left me, leaving nothing
but those bruises and years
of abuse.
This reputation comes from
years of pain and suffering,
I wish you let me tell you
this wasn't the real me.