Dear you, again.



Dear You,

Me again.

I promised I wouldn’t do this again.,

Write about you. Talk about you.

The girl you laugh at to some.

The girl you tell the rest “Who? When reminded of the past.

The girl with the friend you had the cheek to tell that I only wanted you for your body. After that night you held me down to that bed.

I was the girl who at one point put you before my own family.

I was the girl who tore apart a friendship for you.

I was the girl who just wanted to be loved.

I was the girl you invited to the party, only to find out that it was a party for one and I was the entertainment.

I was the girl who you made to feel that worthless that I tried to end my own life. If that friend hadn’t found me that night, it would have been a mystery of “Why”.

I am the woman who still struggles with flashbacks.

I am the woman with scars inside and out.

I am the woman who found real friendships.

I am the woman you attempted to break.

I am the woman you raped.

But I am the woman who survived it.

So, fuck you.

Oh and P.S. The new girl?

The one who called you prince…

She said “I’m just sick”

She’s right. I am sick.

Sick of wishing I’d told someone sooner.

Because I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Who was going to believe me over someone who had a knack of wrapping everyone around their little finger?

I am sick of protecting you to mutual friends when they ask me if it’s you in past poetry.

She also said I am “wounded”.

Darling, I am but not in the childish way that you meant.

Wounded from the truth of what was no consent.


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