Perhaps you’re only
what you made me believe
and I was only
what you wanted me to be.
Our “I love you’s” were only
sugar-coated slips of the tongue,
our gazes as deep as cheap
romance novels.
Same old story of ripped love
we still tried to patch up
with pretty yet brittle thread.
Despite how much
I couldn’t stand you,
I hung on for dear life
While you pried
away at my fingers
And when I finally
fell on the hard
and lonely concrete
I couldn’t help wondering
why we couldn’t have kept
pretending.
Written at age 15
