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Poem

You can call me what you will,
But your opinion does not define me. 

If you say I am a hypocrite, 
Then every word I said was a lie. 
But it felt more real to me
Than praising the lord from a church pew on Sunday mornings. 
Every time my lips parted to whisper the words “I love you” 
I meant them more than every time I said I was hungry. 
And every time I held you close, 
I loved it more than I loved myself. 

If you could ask every person I spoke to
While you were away
They would say I loved you with devotion. 
I could have had any guy I wanted. 
But I waited. For my boy. Who never returned. 
I waited. Spoke of nothing with more pride and love than I did of you. 
The person who returned was a stranger’s soul inhabiting my boy’s body. 
You tore me apart, tendon from tendon with every word you spoke, like knives carving me into pieces. 
They didn’t understand the depth at which I fell for you. 
And how badly you had the power to hurt me with your words. 
Because I practically worshipped the ground you walked. 
Heart pounding, tears flowing at every letter I received. 
The first time I heard your voice, I broke down in a torrent of tears. 
My friends told me they had never seen me so damn happy. 

If you call me a hypocrite, 
Then you are lying to yourself because you can’t get over me. 
You know damn well no one ever treated you as good as I did. 
I was your world, and you were mine, but in a flash the memories were lies. 
Corrupted by time and hatred, and corroded by bitterness.

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