i have written about you
but you’re vain enough
to think you’re my only subject.
i scratched our lives into
once, twice, a few times
tried to make sense of my hurt
the betrayal, the excuses and lies
yet you think each word is about you.
i stack my regrets
and color them in prose,
detail my meaningless existence
and wrestle with my demons,
drag my secrets across the page
turn my life into poems
and you think this is all about you.