a scribble here, a scribble there
words you didn’t know i wrote
instead you attributed the poem to someone else
and not me as i had hoped

at least it’s a consolation to know
that in the end, i write these poems for me
it’s how i can assess the damages
after falling for you so foolishly

knowing full well you’d only break my heart
just like the others who came before you
the scars they left behind hidden in the poems i wrote
although their names have long fallen through

the cracks of my memory
widening with every passing year
as i grow ever older wishing i’d one day learn the lessons
that go with every broken-hearted tear

but maybe it’s a good thing you’ll never know
that i wrote all those poems for you
it allows me to salvage what’s left of my dignity
while i pull through like i always do.

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