When you look back and think of me,
if you ever even do,
am I fond and full of kindness,
or embarrassment and rue?
In hindsight I must wonder
if you call me a mistake,
or if you just deny me
and you write it off as fake.
I do not need an answer,
it has long-since ceased to matter,
but my mind is ever-asking
and I must assume the latter.
Pillow talk, they laugh and mock;
humor in my woe!
A pathetic fucking fool
hanging on to long ago.
Erase me with the friction
built by bodies in your bed.
Kill me as you kiss him,
and forget me when I’m dead.
