I already know it’s over,
because it never began.
I understand
that everything I felt
was slap-dashed together in my head,
even if you said the right things
and told me what I needed to hear in that moment,
since you were clear
and everything that came after
was just theater
in the form of comfort
and what I thought might be
love in its infancy.
I wish you could see,
feel
what those consequences are,
of building someone up to a precipice
then pushing them over
because it’s so easy for you
to push.
I don’t want to be a cushion.
I don’t want to be a blanket.
I don’t want to be less than,
smaller than,
easy to discard.
I really thought it would be harder
to let me go,
and deep down I knew,
I still know,
that it’s not about me,
and never was.