You sigh and turn to look out of the window.
The lush green garden beckons you, the old
wooden gate at the end
an escape.
And yet,
you turn back to look at her hopeful kind face.
She has this magnetic pull,
an optimism for life that you like.
When you are around her you feel better.
But that’s all.
You’re using her to make you feel good about
yourself.
She hasn’t realised it yet, but she will.
She’s beautiful and funny and encouraging.
She praises you, listens to you,
fucks you.
She waits for you, and keeps waiting for you.
You stand her up,
more than once.
She forgives you.
She is not naive, and not stupid.
She’s just fallen for you.
You know all of this, and yet you toy with her.
You’re very own living doll.
I feel the bile rise in my throat as you take
her hand and smile indifferently at her,
her bright face beaming back.
She won’t believe me if I tell her, she’ll tell
me it’s not true,
‘He tells me things he hasn’t told other people.
He tells me that he loves me’.
And yet when you chuck her back into the dusty toy
box, broken,
I’ll be the one that will get her out, dust her
off, mend her,
and mop away her tears.
I am the one that truly cares.
You smirk at me and tighten your grip, kissing
her lightly on the top of her head.
You know I know.
So I wait.
I will always be there, even if you won’t be
You heartless son-of-a-bitch.
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