The aftermath you left me with remains
by a consent look over my shoulder.
The whispers on the metro that have your voice,
even though I haven't seen you in 11 years.
The tick in my head tells me how you've been living.
The tick is the click on my laptop mouse to get to your facebook screen.
No call to say I'm a big sister.
No call to say how you have been doing.
I have come to found out you moved,
Is it near me?
Do I have to worry about you trying to see me?
Or are you moving on and avoiding me?
I write about you like you were once my lover but instead you were my abuser.
You were the one to blow smoke in my face and say how much you loved me.
Then hurt me in a way that future people could see the hurt in me.
Do you ever think about the pain you caused me?
Or are you just writing your name on everyone and passing it on.
You are the virus I conceal and don't let people know about until it is too late.