It was never
really about me.
Not the names.
Not the anger.
Not the accusations.
They arrived
wearing someone else’s shoes.
Another argument.
Another disappointment.
Another night
you couldn’t carry
what hurt inside you.
So you handed it
to me instead.
Until one day
you admitted
what I already knew.
“I’ll stop taking it out on you.”
I wish
knowing
had been enough
to stop it.
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