What you revealed

You didn’t lose me.

You left me.

And then when the guilt scraped its teeth across your ribs, if it ever actually did…

you rewrote the script

and cast me as the villain

because it hurt less than admitting

you broke something good. Me. 

You turned my loyalty into a liability,

my softness into an accusation,

my friendship and all my words I NEVER SENT YOU into threats you needed to escape.

I watched you do it—

watched you twist my UNSENT posts 

into a story you could hide behind just like you hid behind your phone with a conversation we never had, because you wouldn’t even meet me for brunch. 

Yeah, I watched, in tears…. watched you cling to YOUR narrative like a life raft

because the truth would have drowned you.
The truth? Was just exactly what I texted you: those words were not for you. That no one reads this blog because it’s unsearchable, and that you never even heard me out. Who does this to their FRIEND? 

Me, my words, my friendship, my heart? I was the safest thing you’d ever been given. And you threw me away and shattered my soul when I was already 6 ft under 6 feet after a job loss. 
You watched me burn on a pyre of depression and threw gasoline on it but texted me you never meant to hurt me as if those words would extinguish my grief, my pain. 

And still, you painted me wicked.

Not because I was,

but because you couldn’t bear to face

your own cowardice in daylight. Have you ever said you’re sorry to anyone? You value good communication and growth and therapy, which I do ALL but mine wasn’t good enough? Fuck that. The fuck it was. 

You ended us to stay comfortable.

You ended us because the closeness made you shake.

You ended us because I saw you—

too clearly, too honestly,

too much for someone who only knows love

in small, frightened doses.
Was that it? 

You called me the problem

while standing knee-deep

in the wreckage of leaving. But I was in the minefield of your actions. 

You pointed a trembling finger

and said “her,”

because saying “me”

would have cracked you open.

And what a tragedy—

not that you left,

but that you had to make me monstrous

on your way out.

That you needed a villain

instead of a memory.

That you smeared green across my skin

so your conscience could sleep at night.Right??

But here’s the part you’ll feel someday,

in the hollow just behind the ribs, behind your tattoo of your name and poetry:

I was the friend who stayed.

I was the one who showed up.

I was the one who meant it.

And you threw me to the western skies and wind

then told everyone you watched me fall.

I’m sure you have rewritten our story and it’s end. Because even the one you told me was only half of what is true. 

Because you never and still refuse to hear me out. You refuse to do shit about a friendship that meant the world to me and what YOU lead me to believe meant the world to you. 
I have texts and Marco polos saying so. 

BUT:

You didn’t break me—

you revealed yourself.

And nothing you say about me

will ever be sharper

than what you’ve already done

to yourself.

If that makes me wicked,

if that’s the title that keeps your lies intact—

fine.

Just know this:

Villains don’t mourn the heroes. No one mourns the Wicked…

But I mourned you.

God, I did.

And that grief is something

you’ll never be brave enough

to feel back.