You told me that I wasn’t good enough,
that I was the one with flaws.
You yelled that I would never be anything great,
from a phone in that dreadful cell.

You pushed me away,
and pulled me right back in.
Like some sick twisted game,
of how far can she bend.

I was eight,
and I was naive.
Yet, I believed that you really did love me.
And maybe you did,
but your kind of love is not right.

And then I was nineteen,
and you stood there telling me you were sober,
with a bottle falling out of your pocket.

It is that same game,
of push and shove,
and no I’m not an addict,
I drink because of you.
As if somehow this was all my fault.

And I finally stopped bending,
and instead I started breaking.
Because the walls I built up,
were tumbling to the ground.
And the wounds and the scars
were rising above.
And my clouded vision of you,
became all to crystal clear.

And I saw who you were,
or rather who you are.
Just some no good,
drugged up,
drunken ******* of a man.

Who I will never let stand,
as my example of love again.
Because I am good enough,
and I know where I stand.