of course i pretended that it didn't matter;
that words were as nothing; that such hadn't hurt,
and through the years passing the scars were not visible
so no-one could know the truth was much worse
than i think was expected - it was, really, childish -
yet somehow those moments still rip me apart,
buried deep in subconscia and doubting my image
of self well-concocted (to shelter my heart)
and of course i pretend still that it doesn't matter -
that words were ephemerae, cheap, in the past -
but through the years passing gods i still remember;
internally shake at damnations that last
though they should not
i could not
forget.



:



"i never really loved you"



:



do
not
speak
to
me
of
sticks
and
stones.