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Like so many before you,
and perhaps, after you,
I thought you fancied me,
and perhaps, loved me a little.

exempli gratia

(you came to me wounded, almost broken.
i wanted to fix you, but before I was done,
you cowardly return to the one whom
you fled from in the first place.)

(you attempted to write a poem,
and even though i cringed
reading it, i loved you for doing so,
and at the same time, aching to edit it)

(you spoke well of all the wonderful things
we can do together,
and i thought it was rather sweet that
you jacked off looking at my picture,
as i was listening to you, wondering which
picture you liked best)

(you said I was beautiful over and over,
and because i don’t take compliments well,
I thought you were being silly,
especially when you proposed.
you actually wanted to marry me. Gasp.)

(and You, whom this crappy poem is really for,
and at this point I really don’t care if its a crappy
attempt at free verse
and whom I thought of writing of in the first place,
well, there wasn’t much you did, except that
you really talked to me.

but i saw you mirroring each other, it’s sick.
juvenile, even.)

What was i supposed to make out of it?
i, who pride myself for being unassuming,
no expectations, no disappointments
(as a friend across the pond once told me).
But there was always that promise
of something, that I actually held on.

You are a sweet mistake.

You, who are many, came fleeting
and you never really stayed.
It was always the other woman, the fixture of
somebody old and familiar,
or somebody new and exciting.

Fucking go.

And so, good luck to you, to all of you.
i wish [she fucks] you well.

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