I regret telling you everything.
I don’t know why I felt so fucking trusting.
I guess it’s due to us knowing one another for years.
I thought I was free to speak and lend an ear.
And I was. I was. But that doesn’t mean you’ll understand.
Or that you’ll even try to empathize with who you called a friend.
I lay in my bed now, knowing how stupid I was to think this would end well.
Who knew you would contain the fire of the most unforgiving part of hell?
When mom passed away, when I admitted to domestic abuse
when I said I was trans, and you just nodded- I thought I knew you.
But apparently, during these- times of bitter and desperate need
you were just playing with me.
You went back to people and tried to expose emotions as news.
Even then, I said- that I knew you.
And I did. I did. At a time when we both were kids
and the only knowledge we had was common sense.
You’re the splitting image of your mother now.
I don’t mean that as a compliment at all.
She’s dramatic and overly climatic but visions herself as the season of Fall.
She sees herself as this beautiful, natural gift from God that serves no purpose but show people how
to change as time does, to leave when you feel the grief of death’s walls
I see you smile in the corner of my eye, and I know you think you’re Spring.
New, fresh- growing beauty in thoughtful patterns and releasing the old shivers.
But you’re not the life saver you think you are when you’re listening to me.
You’re the winter breeze that blows my twisted words to the center
of the calendar that tries to number us down to provide hope.
Yes, you’re what you feel you are when the regret sinks in as you choke.
I don’t need you. I regret you. I wish I had never spoke a word about my hurt.
I would of rather felt it take over my weakening body as it revolts the feeling of loneliness.
I thought you were what kept my skeleton in my skin, and the breath in my lungs.
But you were what would destroy me, with your malicious gossip due to your tongue.