And I believe you.
I don’t deserve merely being an option or second best.
Plans with me are always secondary to the ones you make with your friends. I can be cancelled, put on hold, rescheduled at your convenience; that though you’re online, those tell-tale blue ticks show that you’ve read my messages – you would always be too busy to reply.
I don’t deserve the late nights staying up to wait for you; falling asleep on the couch, phone clutched to my chest; the untouched dinners scrapped into bins because you have already eaten.
I don’t deserve to be treated like a dirty secret,the snooping around.
That your social media can be peppered with pictures of half-clad girls with you but you can’t be seen in public with me.
I don’t deserve your criticisms conveniently disguised as constructive that you offer so generously.
your constant reminders of my flaws, of ways how I never quite measure up. How I am never quite as slim or as toned as the girls you know, how I could be taller or have bigger breasts; as if thigh gaps were something I could pick up at a grocery store.
I am not a charity and you, my sole benefactor.
I don’t deserve you using my body.
That when you reach for me at night, I am not supposed to refuse you. I am to bend over until my back breaks, take it all in until I choke. That I have to strip myself raw, perform like a well-trained circus monkey for your entertainment.
I don’t deserve staying up after, with you fast asleep, cock slick with conquest, wondering:
“Is it love even when it feels so selfish?”
Love isn’t easy but it shouldn’t be this hard.
Love is about compromise, but this love is compromising me.
I don’t deserve you – this is what you tell me.
And I believe you.
I deserve better.
Though he means the world to you,
if he tells you that you don’t deserve to be loved – don’t believe him.