you grew flowers in my lungs,
and although they were pretty,
I could hardly breathe.
you’ve built parts to me I didn’t know could be built
but now that they’ve been torn down,
the vacancy shows the accommodation to you
you did not want me to blossom
yet you pushed me to be ready to be harvested
I don’t care though,
like I always say.
I don’t care you dipped your fingers in me to touch the deepest parts a human can touch.
I don’t care that I gave you my emotions.
not on a loan, but to keep as if you made them on your own
I don’t care because I’m used to being used.
used like a child’s blanket for comfort and warmth
but never washed nor used passed moonlight
you devoured me whole
but you didn’t savor the flavor
I gave myself to you,
because I love you more than I love myself
because I’m selfless and you are selfish
you take advantage of that every time you tell me I’m beautiful,
but we both know you aren’t talking about my mind
you know exactly what to say for me to let you in
so you come and go as you please
because I leave the keys under the mat
because being used is better than not being used at all
because I need to feel something,
rather than nothing at all
so I choose pain and longing and hurt and grief
like I always do,
because I’m used to being used