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**This poem has been sitting unfinished for months now, so please enjoy the unfinished version of this one. Hoping to get the creative motivation (and time) to finish it in the next few weeks**

My love for you lies at the bottom of my purse.
Next to the last letter you gave me,
the movie tickets from our first drive-in,
and your favorite wheat penny that you so graciously parted with.
Next to all of that, lies all the broken.
The trust, the promises, and your masculinity
because you thought that being loyal
was the same as giving up being a man
and you'd be damned if I ever felt like
a woman.
I was good to you.
"Too good to be true,"
is what you always told me,
and you were right,
but not about me,
about you.
See, you were never really who you seemed.
The sweet, quiet man that I first met
was just a façade of who was actually lurking underneath.
A wolf in sheep's clothing.
A devil disguised as an angel.
The answer to everything I ever wanted
wrapped around everything I ever hated.
You tricked me.
You pulled me in close with soft gestures and warm smiles,
just like my father did to my mother;
the wrapping paper was just so pretty.
Every gift is meant to be opened,
but you should have been labeled as "return to sender"
and sent back to the hell from which you came and gave to me.
"Abandon all ye who enter."
You should have come with a warning.
A sign that said, "turn around" or "do not cross."
A chance for me to run and avoid all the destruction that you would one day cause,
and I would inevitably clean up.
"I love yous"
dripped in
"I'm sorrys"
shaped as
band-aids
that you plastered on all the broken pieces of my heart
as an "attempt" to heal the hurt that you caused.
But you never really ever healed the hurt that you caused.
Because, see,
healing involves talking
and you never liked talking,
so we never talked.
Our existence mute and mundane,
just silent planets caught in each other's orbit,
but would never actually collide.
If I ever wanted to not speak of something,
then that was okay.
All I ever had to do was mention it once,
and you'd never speak of it again.
The topic would die between us like all the love we ever shared,
no matter how important it was.
But I was important.