years.

You asked me if I was writing again.
You said I was tragically beautiful when I was down.
You knew I only wrote when I was blue.
You said I looked sad, but beautifully sad.
Sad in a way you didn't want to help me because I looked like a broken angel.
I should have known then.

I was always the broken trophy you had on display.
I was the war story you told all of your friends.
I was the tragic little girl you saved.

And when I could stand on my own two feet, you never hated me more.

You're my number one fan you piece of shit.