Broken Heroine

I imagine that I was your heroine once.
You used to tell me I was, at least.

But what sort of heroine spends her nights alone?
What heroine spends days dying silently?
What sort of heroine laments over the past?
Do I look like your heroine now?

Do you think I really don’t care?
Does this pain really not matter?
You stab me in the back
And then want to be friends?

I imagine you were my lover once.
That’s what I used to believe, at least.

Does a lover spend his days with someone else?
What lover plays tonsil hockey with another woman?
What lover hides the truth and run away?
What sort of lover do you think you are?

If you hold me to the highest standards
Then why can’t I hold you to them myself?
Does it feel good to be a hypocrite?
Does it make you laugh to know I’m alone?

I imagine I could be happy again.
That’s what I want to happen, at least.

What sort of life will I live?
Why should I bother looking for love?
Why do I feel so jovial now?
Is loneliness what makes me a good person?

Don’t you see I’m enjoying my freedom?
Can’t you see that I love my solitude?
Aren’t you ashamed of hurting me?
Can’t you see I can find out what type of person I am?

I imagine you’re reading this with her laughing.
I hope you’ll end up regretting this, at least.