I loved a strong man he made me feel weak He choked my songs my voice ceased to sing I loved a hero but he zapped my strengths Took my strong words broke them beneath his feet My words for him were love his were hate all my insecurities he said he was trying to push away until the day he decided I had changed too much Because I had changed too much Changed by every word he said He decided to break his promise forget the ring I wore And take another girl to bed.
There are no good memories of you:
I hate that I can remember being loved by you The look in your eyes the first time we slept together it was a January morning you wore a green sweater I remember how you said our names all mixed together I donβt know when we changed but your oh ****, your ending phrase your truth turned lie blew back over everything I have no good memories left of you they are all tainted by hatred and pain now I hate the way you said my name how it was not as safe on your lips as I believed And I hate what you had made of me by the end I hate what we could have been. I do not hate that we are not I am glad that you are gone I only wish that you had thought to leave my heart alone.
Your bookshelf was too small:
Though your suggestions were good, though you read every classic, though you knew every (over-spoken) line, you knew too narrow a scope. Though I agree that very little remains unspoken after the classic works. Your shelf of scarcely over seven books, and the fact I never saw you read one, should have conveyed to me a point of disaster that I somehow did not see coming. I have drunk in the words of others since I was a child. I have dived in bargain bins and raided library discards for one more book to read. You could have afforded a library beyond what I could have imagined, and your greatest concerns would have been what people thought of the books you kept and if their spines all matched. I have read almost every book on my shelves. I think they number in the hundreds and I have read so many more besides. And you, you disdained new work. Your pretentiousness and pseudo-intellectual paths fooled even me, until I believed that maybe you, with your little shelf, could offer me something I had not yet discovered. I think you thought so too. But my honest thoughts on you loving a writer are that you, with your little shelf and your boxes and your preconceived notions of what people should be, had no way of knowing how to love someone as open as a writer; someone who can turn their whims with the setting of the sun, who can live in worlds you have never seen and longs only to share them. You with your little boxes and your little shelf never deserved my mind or my stories in your life. I am glad my books never found homes on your shelves.