And you are just like the muse of my poems two years ago

“You’re busy.” I told her.

Because it’s kinder than reminding her we aren’t really friends.

That the only reason she likes me is because I bought us dinner at Cafe Rio. 

I invited her to study with me and my friend, 

and I told her that I don’t really feel jealousy 

but I thought she was incredibly 

beautiful. 

With the bloom of our friendship 

I put her above any boy I might meet,

but when given the same chance, 

she never did the 

same. 

We aren’t really friends. 

I am an outlet, 

an object of use 

whose fate is to eventually be discarded. 

A pulsing heart that remembers how to break, 

and understands even better how to 

leave. 

I see you but I also see the way you see me. 

I know what it is to be used, 

This feeling is akin to what happens with the word 

family. 

“You’re busy.” 

I told her. And she believed me.

 Because in her mind,

 it is only her and that which directly serves her. 

If I am not lifting her up, 

I do not exist. 

So I quietly exit her stage to go find my own way.