you hold my hand through it
like i'm a patient and you're the doctor,
guiding me through my prognosis.
you tell me it was for the best
and everything will be okay
while you lock lips with someone else behind my back
and mutter kind but empty words to my face;
they're expected,
but i know better than to expect anything from you

anymore.

you hold my heart like it's crystal,
cautious not to break it,
not because you're worried it will shatter,
but because you're worried that you will be
pinpointed for the crime;

you say: "i'm sorry.
don't cry."

stupid boy; didn't you know?
i'm not crying.

i just got a little resentment in my eye.