(I wish you were real)

Sometimes I still miss you,
and wonder if you miss me too.
The bad and the good,
personal dirty cravings for the stability of
anger, hate, harm, catharsis, guilt, love. 

Then I remember a time where I wanted so badly to be okay,
*away*,
from you.
To be a person,
not a thing
that floated through existence
on the whim of that which
for maybe a moment
at the flip of a coin
would make me feel like
I was not a worthless girl.
with stories I could not tell you
with a straight face
or a serious tone
the futility of begging to be seen,
while hiding the truth
of each bruise.

You did not believe me,
Why would you?
Even I hated myself, 
dissecting the moments of my life
for your judgmental curiosity.
My experience; a lie to which the reality was 
unsharable,
even to you, 
for your unyielding anger
which levied my person
against me. 

against other women who
won’t even let you violate them
in the ways I would,
let alone be the same person afterwards,
to console you, kiss you, be your peace.
I could condense any pain 
to nothing at all
to love
for the price of you pride,
so long as you could admit
you needed me too.

but you couldn’t. 

and yet

There is no way in which you could have hurt me,
in a way that mattered.

Just as there is no way in which,
I could be loved,
in a way that mattered. 

if there was a truth to shine between our lies;

If I am a husk,
a shell of joy;
so be it. 

I may not be happy, 
but I am determined. 
to lose my resolve,
would to be to lose myself.

and you *loved* *me*, didn’t you?

/red.