pathetic is when I look into your eyes and even as you tell me you still like me, I can’t remember the last time I actually felt it— the warmth, the wanting, the certainty.
pathetic is the smile you wear when you say we’re okay, like your lips are performing a role your heart has already abandoned. that sly touch during dinner, while another episode of a Netflix show plays in the background— a touch so faint it feels like mercy, not affection.
pathetic are the nights you lie beside me without reaching for me, stacking excuse after excuse as if your distance was something I imagined. my skin still remembers you— while clearly, yours has forgotten me.
pathetic is the breakfast you make and the pile of dishes on the sink, both of us pretending the mess is about plates and forks, and bowls, and not the widening silence we tiptoe around.
pathetic is the wonderful future we once planned— the life we painted with hopeful hands— now buried under every old mistake you’ve resurrected, thrown at my feet as if forgiveness was temporary, as if my growth was irrelevant.
pathetic is knowing your friends have heard more of my flaws than my softness— that over pizza and chinese and shisha you fed them pieces of me stripped of context, like you needed witnesses to your disappointment.
pathetic is when you say you want to fix us, you say we’re worth saving— but I only see myself crawling through the wreckage, collecting fragments, holding them up to the light just for you to drop them again, shattering me in new ways I never knew existed.
