Stingy

deep in my melancholic, atomic tears,

i write about my first love,

toxic, chronic, hypnotic stuff.

5 foot 3 point 5,

charming and misunderstood.

his sexual pressure shadowed by his affection.

i learnt to prove my love by getting on my knees,

doing what you pleased,

and although i felt like a sleaze,

I didn't want to displease.

because i thought we had a connection.

because at the start we talked and we walked and we kissed,

but by the end we fought and fucked and i reminisced,

about the days before we did anything,

when i was someone,

not just a plaything.

i played ill,

so you would chill,

but still.

a lack of respect i didn't expect,

it shouldn’t have beared repeating,

me trying to tell you i’m greetin’,

and it being treated like i’m conceited.

when i just needed for you to be sweet,

and for me not to be meat.

it was so sleazy and easy,

i didn’t like it,

sitting crying because i felt dirty.

i didn't like it.

getting touched up in front of my mates,

you persistent, i distant,

i was resistant but you were insistent.

although i explained how i felt,

you somehow remained the same.

because i mistaked lust for trust,

and i thought how nice it is to be wanted,

pushing away that disgust,

when in reality you were insecure,

and in reality you hid that in your sensuality.

blinded by my infatuation,

i wasn’t in control of the situation.

it left my belly aching,

my heart breaking.

under the sheets for days.

and when i did go out,

overcome with doubt,

that my friends would much rather be without.

i was devout,

to having one leg on yesterday and the other on tomorrow, pissing on today

because i was beginning to decay

and i’m still trying to adjust to my issues with trust but i’ll get there,

just.