Yes, I still find myself writing about you
But do not mistake it for buried affection
If I’ve learned anything from what I’ve written
It was a mistake convincing myself I loved you

I still have thoughts about you
Because you’re a cautionary tale
Of rushed decisions and low self-esteem
A chapter worth of lessons I had to re-learn

I still write about you to remind myself
That pain can fade and there is a new normal
After years of agonizing routine
But I have to admit I still have metaphors
And prose dedicated to you

Again, do not mistake this for love
My pieces are permanent sticky notes
Making sure I remember the days you borrowed my heart,
My time, my sanity, and my limbs
Holding me close as if I would always be yours

I was the idiot who thought it was romantic
When all you did was use me for your convenience
Kept me at a distance but close enough
To make me miss your presence,
And constantly crave your attention

Even when I hated your touch, I still felt thankful
But do not mistake yourself as a muse
Out of desperation, here I am
In my excruciating days of writers’ block
I use you as a character, a line, or a verse
Paint you as a villain and the savior I never asked for,
Reducing your identity to ramblings on a paper

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