Do you,
think of,
me,
the way,
I,
think of,
you?
Because,
truth is,
I,
really don’t.
When the news says,
someone’s dead,
I look for,
your name,
instead.
Is that,
bad?
Possibly,
just sad?
It probably is,
but truth is,
I don’t care.
The scars you left,
wont wither,
until you taste,
the poison you,
hypocritically,
made for me.
Do you,
think of,
me,
the way,
I,
think of,
you?
Probably,
not.