just a thought

I thought I was different—better, even—than before.

But he says I'm not.

So I guess I'm not.

I just thought I was.

And if I'm not, if I truly haven't progressed, I guess I'm more delusional than I thought.

My mom sends me letters and cards each day to remind me that I'm worthy, that I'm good, that I'm loved.

I thought I was.

But he says I'm not.

So I guess I'm not.

I'm not.

I say mean things to him, like

Go fuck yourself

when I feel ignored,

Hope your boss' pussy is sweeter than mine

when he goes out for drinks with coworkers instead of having dinner with me,

Thanks for calling to check in on me! You're so considerate!

when I don't hear from him while I'm laying in bed sick.

I do these things to hurt him

when I'm hurting

and I don't understand why.

I thought I didn't understand, but it's because I'm a monster.

Because he told me that.

And I've thought that.

Then convinced myself that it wasn't true.

But then he reminded me of that.

So I think that now.

I guess I'm a monster.

Why else would I act like one?

He says I deny accountability for my actions.

But I thought I was pretty good at admitting fault.

I thought I was.

But he said I'm not.

So I guess I'm not.

I'm not.

I thought he could love me like I loved him.

I thought he could.

He said he did.

So he did.

I just fucked that up.

He said he's sick of me crying wolf,

playing the victim.

I didn't think I was.

But he said I was, said he was sick of it.

So I am.

So am I.

I thought I wasn't always like this.

He didn't say I wasn't.

So I guess I have been.

I think I've always been.

He thinks I'm poisonous.

I think I am too.

I think that I think I am,

I do.

After all, he said it

so it's true.