you grew flowers in my lungs,

and although they were pretty,

I could hardly breathe.

 

you’ve built parts to me I didn’t know could be built

but now that they’ve been torn down,

the vacancy shows the accommodation to you

 

you did not want me to blossom

yet you pushed me to be ready to be harvested

 

I don’t care though,

like I always say.

 

I don’t care you dipped your fingers in me to touch the deepest parts a human can touch.

I don’t care that I gave you my emotions.

not on a loan, but to keep as if you made them on your own

 

I don’t care because I’m used to being used.

used like a child’s blanket for comfort and warmth

but never washed nor used passed moonlight

 

you devoured me whole

but you didn’t savor the flavor

 

I gave myself to you,

because I love you more than I love myself

because I’m selfless and you are selfish

 

you take advantage of that every time you tell me I’m beautiful,

but we both know you aren’t talking about my mind

 

you know exactly what to say for me to let you in

so you come and go as you please

because I leave the keys under the mat

 

because being used is better than not being used at all

because I need to feel something,

rather than nothing at all

 

so I choose pain and longing and hurt and grief

like I always do,

because I’m used to being used