I Can’t Look at You Anymore

I can’t look at you anymore.

You remind me of all the reasons I started to believe I wasn’t “worth it.”

I look at you, and
I am reminded that
You only saw me for what I was for you:
A stimulant.

I hear your voice, and it reminds me

how you once told me I was your friend

You told me I taught you so much
You told me I knew you better than anyone
You told me I was important to you
And I believe that you
whole-heartedly meant all those things

until you slid your hand up my shirt.

I see your name, and
it reminds me of texts you sent me about
how my presence made you lose control
how you wanted to hear my voice
and taste my skin

When you were in the mood for intimacy, passion, stimulation,
you welcomed me with open arms.
But the truth of the matter is that

When you weren’t in the mood for sex,
you weren’t in the mood for me.

I see your face, and
it reminds me of how you looked at me
when you wanted to touch me,
how you undressed me with your eyes
while I was talking to you,
how you smirked at me
when I pleased you,

how you looked at her,
and her,
and her,
and her,
and how you would never look at me like that

because you only saw me
when you had me come over, 
but couldn’t see me
after you came. 

I am not mad. I was never mad.
I was–
I am
hurt.
And every time I see you, I am reminded of that.

Which is why…

I can’t look at you anymore.

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