I love the fact that you need to lean on me, a boy says.
He loved my vulnerability and how big I made him feel,
But would get annoyed if I’d call him in the midst of another anxiety attack,
Begging to know if he still loved me,
if he still wanted me.
He called me his broken little thing.
Wrote a play and in it I stabbed myself with a blade.
I would write him a suicide note thanking him for his bravery and his charm.
He finds me on the floor, cries over me and goes on to be a doctor,
It’s only now that I realise he never loved me.
He just loved the control.