Self fulfilling prophecy
I read book dedications and cry.
Nostalgia burns worse than
the words you used to speak.
I've been the problem child since
—well, ever.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Isn't it ironic,
my diamond dame?
You brought me into this world
pink and smooth and wailing—
or so I’ve heard.
Some nights, I wonder:
Did the chicken come first, or the egg?
Did you hate me
before you made me?
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