Over the course of time

I’ve caught a couple knives in the back

From a couple friends

I thought it was kinda weird how they thought

It would feel good

 

But as time went on

I noticed that even though the knives were gone

There were still scars lingering on my body

The memories would sometimes sting

But only when I remembered them

 

I suppose when you hurt someone

They’ll never be the same

Much like glass dropped upon the floor

You can repair it

Polish it

Make it pretty again

 

But it’s still broken

 

Sometimes those friends would come back

They’d start with a ‘let’s hang out’

When really it was just to get me to do stuff for them

So adding on from the knives

They liked to use me

 

And still here I’m confused as to why they think that’s acceptable behaviour

And here I’m baffled that when I finally lash out at them for being assholes

I’m the bad guy