You have your friends and your dog and your music and your ideas and your preconcieved notions and your stories of traveling and your haughty attitude and your concerned demeanor and your crossed arms and your slow speech and your raised eyebrows and your faith and your pointed fingers and your guilt trips and your certainty.
You look down with disdain and fear and satisfaction on your face, hoping (expecting?) to see me cower and shake at your gaze. Catching your eyes in mine and then faltering to stare at my feet and kick dirt maybe, like a child being punished.
And I all have is a cigarette and a swing. Trying not to roll my eyes as you break my life down into tiny little pieces, sifting through all the good and finding the tiny gold nuggets of sin that you can hold up to the sun and show all of your friends.
You see?
I told you it was never real.
I told you she never meant any of it.
She's happy for once and that's not ok.
It's not happy the way I want her to be.
It's a happy I'm not comfortable with, so it must be wrong.