written in 2013
It’s selfish and conceited, but sometimes I like to think I was your worst.
I’m the little period in your life you swallow pills to forget.
I’m the worst thing to ever happen to you.
I kept you up all night, tossing in your bed,
while thoughts went ’round your head,
like:
who the fuck is she, and
did she mean what she said?
I’m a little piece of nightmare that got stuck in your dream teeth.
I’m the ghost devil on your shoulder, that you thought you’d shed.
Every so often you recall what I did,
and think:
shit, what did I get into, and
can it never happen again?
I was conceited when I loved you; I was selfish when I left.
I tossed words without abandon; I belittled what we had.
Misery loves company, was my battle cry.
I hung the phrase on all my banners, and
let harsh words fall from my lips.
Each second I felt scorned, I thought would be my last
Every teardrop that fell from my eye,
you knew I blamed on you.
I stuck a dagger in your chest, hoping to rake through
your ribs and crack them down to dust.
I love to imagine how I was the worst thing to ever happen to you,
and in that I will be immortalized.
I’m the slanderous tale told at the cabin, and ghost story for the young.
A cautionary tale of psycho bitches, and what can come undone.
A warning for your friends, a comedy for the bored,
a thank-your-lucky-stars-it-wasn’t-you for the unappreciative ignored.
I will outlive all the rest, based on my infamy of awfulness.
And then I feel downright bad.
Because I loved you in the moment. I treasured what we had.
I trusted every word you spoke, believed each lie you said —
I think we both did —
and when I started believing I was the
worst thing that could happen to you, that I was crazy and insane,
I ran away and still blame you, even if it’s all in vain.
Because I was the worst thing to ever happen to you.
The Halfwit Writer 