I’ve come to realize that I’m falling,
drifting away from your love,
crashing into a wall of indifference.
Burning in pain
because you said:
You’ll never love me like she did.
I’ve come to realize that I’m sinking,
drowning in an ocean of agony,
descending into your waters of envy.
Burning lungs of asphyxiation
because you said:
You’ll never smile like she did.
Why do you fixate over my shortcomings,
my inherent flaws and stupid mistakes,
my unprecedented hardships?
I can’t be her; I can’t replace her.
I can’t change what happened to her.
You should come to realize that I’m hurting,
internally screaming from your toxic affection,
mentally bleeding from your insensitive wounds.
Burning with animosity
I should’ve said sooner:
I wished that you never loved me.
—
M. 5/8/21 @ 12:16 a.m.
I read a stanza of an unfinished poem from a long time ago, when I was a teenager. Slightly revised, I expanded the verse into an entire poem.