Was It Lies

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.