Bitter Truths

Though I know the bitter truth now,
this heartache will be no less difficult.
I will feel it in my bones every day,
when I look back at the calendar I made –
the pictures in France: you, me, and Sean.
(I have stowed that under my bed now).

The one we made love in so frequently,
I swear I thought everything we had was real.
Everything you said was real.
That Brooklyn accent that said my name
in such rough undertones.
(You played me for such a fool).

I know now how you played me (oh so well).
Maybe it’ll make you happy to know that you got me.
You fucking got me.
I fell in love with you.
I fell in love with your bullshit, and the lies,
and the dreams you placed so delicately in my head.

The ones you pushed into my marrow,
breathed into my lungs,
finally, a family, a future, (the one – yeah, that’s bullshit, too).
I thought I had finally found it.
You stole my heart in Paris, and I hate that I am
filled with jealousy at the thought of you with someone else.

What I hate even more is that I still feel this way,
even knowing the kind of person you are.
You promised to love me, (to love me forever),
I drank your words in.
Waters from the Danube – pure and perfect.
(Or so I thought).

There is no such thing as perfection.
And in this game, I have to admit, you won.
You beat me handedly.
(Not fair and square).
You knew I loved you,
but words are only whispers when they
follow in the smoke of action (or inaction).
And that, my lost love, is the bitter truth.

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