no matter
how well i know that you still love me
in your twisted way that isn’t really love
i can’t help but wonder if that is a tale i’ve spun myself
to distract from the beautiful boy by your side
whose name is always on the tip of your tongue

i can’t deny that he’s beautiful
perhaps in the same way i was before my skin fell in love with my bones
and begun to cling to them like a lifeline
but when you put me next to the pedestal on which he stands
i want to break him like you broke me
because he is shiny where my skin has dulled
and soft where i've gone rigid
how could i possibly compare?

it does not help
that i think you really love him;
when i say you loved me, i usually mean the animalistic obsession you had with my innocence
you did not love me, not in a soft
and warm way
i almost don't recognize you when your eyes land upon him
immediately erasing me from your memory
my heart stops
because still, this is the hold you have over me
and i harbor more jealousy than i ever believed possible

i haven't touched you in what feels like decades
but i haven't forgotten your skin,
or at least my romanticization of it
and when your hand is on his cheek
my body aches
to wrench you two apart
and force you to see what you once loved about me

but this was never the type of hold i held over you,
in the same way i melt like putty in your hands,
you are hard and unmovable;
of your own volition,
you read my poems
but you don't touch me
you touch him

perhaps you find them laughable
after all, your poems remain masterpieces that carve my soul with pain
even to words,
i couldn't compare.