When I leave
When I leave,
I think I’ll miss
the concept of you,
more than the physical embodiment
of you.
I’ll miss you,
of course,
but
I won’t miss,
the way you made me,
the way you kicked me when I was down,
the way you told me my success was impossible,
the way you took my disorders and my thoughts and my tears, and made them into something pathetic—useless,
the way you have turned your back on me,
in favor of your own beliefs
I love the idea of you with every part of
my soul,
but I’m starting to wonder if I’ll die loving you.
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