sticks and stones may break our bones and hands will surely bury us

when you give everything to someone
who is supposed to stand
by your side
through everything that could ever go wrong —
and sure as hell has —
where are you left when they tie you up 
with their fake words of assurance
and drag you
down the halls with them
as they lock themselves away for
years
and years
to come?


he meant so much to you,
but he was the last corner of the peanut butter sandwich —
leftovers —
thrown away and tossed aside by someone
who couldn’t see half the true beauty
of such an amazing person.

so he broke you in return.

the male population tends to not see who you really are —
they miss out on the
life within
and focus on the cage that sometimes
you can’t even stand to look at.

how old were you when you were first broken?
five?
seven?
twelve?
more than once the person you would have
done anything for
broke you into a million pieces,
and he still can’t even see that now,
being gone
is more wreckage to your body and mind and very soul
than a single hand could ever cause to such a 
fragile
being.

you’re not so typical —
more than just a physical vision
of what so many perceive to be
desirable —
but the true thing is,
you’re so much more than the blemish
you draw too much attention to,
or the lips you claim
not to be big enough.


you’re worth so much more
than the boy and the man
who saw you as nothing more than
the ideal
skin to skin contact.


ple

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