I can always feel your breath—cold,
like a sad way to go.
You always find me gullible,
too naive to notice your layered tone.
If you could, you would have screamed,
but now,
all I see is a woman, emotionally pale,
and all you see is a boy
you still call lame.

I always find comfort in your eyes
when you are happy, sometimes.
But you leave me on my bony knees
whenever your sadness overshadows mine.
I think you have yourself to find.

You used to keep your eyes low,
I used to storm out crying.
What world would I be living in
if you had just cherished yourself?
Your overthinking feels like my regret,
because you are never the one to express.

Nina and the others are crying power,
while my legs are frail—like pages
that people keep returning to me,
just not the one who used to dress me.

You make me feel like the Apple he didn’t pick,
a discovery your eyes could give.
But then the scavengers hit.