cripple

This used to be this kind of thing would send me into a tailspin. Used to be I’d need eight drinks right about now. But I just don’t anymore.

You used that picture I took of you to advertise yourself to other women. Publicized a private moment seen through my eyes. And isn’t it ironic that if they truly gazed at you from my vantage point they would run the other way?

When we were together I ignored people’s distaste for your offensive brand of humor and your social behaviors that always verged on douchebaggery. The way bartenders just knew when we walked into a place that they didn’t like you. It was strange and a bit painful to watch as you thought you were winning them over with your small talk.

And how odd, when I mentioned your name to the people you told me to, they seemed a bit turned off. Or sometimes they didn’t seem to think much of you at all.

You’ve got some fancy ideas, babe, but no one cares. The disciples aren’t coming and you haven’t the discipline to work.

I don’t think you are what you set out to be, what you still pretend to be, even to yourself. And deep down I think maybe you know.

I hope you crawl back into that hole you came from and remember what you are.

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