About a fucboi

I wrote some poems
as a precursor to this
fuck up
most of them
regarding the futility
of whatever this was
Shortly after you babbled
you love me
all intentional
it sounded like a lie.
I was fool enough to lie back
and let your fingers pry
my mouth open
hissing out devotion
like a can of soda.

you’re dangerous
with your words.
No one would accuse
that lacerated tongue
of laziness
but they’d call you a broken record
I was polite enough to bare
the 50th mention
of fruit bowls.

And I let you do all the crying.
Cus even if I’m hurt
you’re always more hurt
Your will to power is a grief competition

the words came out
i wanted to disappear.
But i was stuck on your bed
as you slept infant like
post a good cry.

I wanted to break something.
I almost did.

I wanted to write
“Fuck You”
in period blood on your wall

But that would make me too much your type.

I wanted you to wake up
to share in my grief
But you tortured poor soul
are too accustomed to be the sad one
How dare I put my name in the reins


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