I love him but it plagues me;

the image of her pretty face,

the smile that hid everything.

I picture so clearly her supple lips,

his hands,

that are my hands, on her hips.

It hurts like hell every single time.

You were supposed to be only mine.

I should have known, and I’ve never

truly hated until now.

I keep asking myself how

I didn’t see the obvious.

I look back on every moment she was pretending

and every moment he might have been thinking,

does she know?

I look back and play out in my mind

what I would have done if I had.

In my dreams it feels so real when I rip out her hair and spit on her face.

Every morning I wake up and wonder if I’ll ever tell her,

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.