Though you’d never admit me to be justified

in saying “no,”

I think you know why I’m doing this.

Too often

I catch you staring at me, wanting me,

but never know how to say

what I have to say.

After everything I’m hardly tongue-tied anymore,

but it’s become too easy to doubt your reality

making you, in my mind, only what I want you to be,

A hypocritical motion, I suppose,

recreating your principle crime against me.

You’d wonder why exactly

I’d ponder something so long dead.

I cannot precisely say,

though I figure it has something to do with how much better

it feels

to miss someone

who might have, in her own twisted way, wanted me

than to shudder at the mention of her name,

remembering the nausea that followed

each and every time she made a pass at me.

I would have played along

as your naive redhead,

would you have pretended to love my spirit

for more than a cheap screw.

It’s never a fair trade,

but it’s apparent that

given and despite everything that happened

only I was truly wrong.

I should have known better

than to search for compassion from a girl who will spend her life

scrounging for approval in the beds of foul boys who close their eyes

and make believe they’re with someone, anyone but her,

who love her because they’re too lazy,

too worthless

for any girl

who insists on being valued as more

than something cheaply bought

and thrown away

the next day