untitled 7

nice guys have come (or were too nice to)
and gone,
mainly because you told them to.
because the ‘nicer’ they were
the less ‘guy’ they seemed,
so you fulfilled your duty as head girl of
the grass is greener generation,
and
uprooted.
a couple years of
eczema-dry landscapes,
forests that promised to bear fruit,
but were evermore eager to show you their wood.
more eager to show you their leaves
than their stays.
without your poet tree, they’d leave,
you - empty and dissatisfied.
thirsts of every kind
met only with mirages,
growing regretful
and weary
of your ever-disloyal memories,
of evenings in a once-known eden even though,
at the time,
you were
dying
to leave him.
skin sweats? or body cries,
as you sleep lying next to him, but to yourself,
dreaming of what could have been
had u been less “let’s give in”
and more….

his snores stop your thoughts.
as you look at him, and .really.
look at yourself,
you realise you’ve done something you’ve cried not to do
since you were given your own worth..
you’ve settled.