I used to be proud of you and me,
Of what we were and who we would be.
I wrote down my thoughts and gave them to you, with a worried look and a nervous laugh.
You saved my words and told me you read them often,
What did they really mean to you?
A face lighted up for the briefest of moments with a smile that you said was cute, if you praised me.
If you didn't, there were tears which you forgot to notice because you were too busy being disappointed.
I meant every word I said and the smiles when they came were true if not a little sad, I wanted you to mean them too.
I remember the night you were proud of me, not for the reasons I should.
Do you remember being proud of me? Unless I reminded you, would you remember that night at all?
I ask myself the question, were you really proud of me?
Or were you proud of yourself for taking one more step towards the end, the inevitable destruction and the beginning of your greatest desire.
You called it love.
I had to say sorry for crimes I'd already forgotten. Already, I had new sins to repent for.
In your excitement did you honestly remember all the wrong that you said I had done?
I forgot in all my pretend excitement, this is the road to love.
You didn't remind me.
I wake up at night and think of the day you were proud of me, once, never again, as I walked painfully down the road that would lead me to love.
Did you forgive me for all my crimes?
Or did you store them in a box and take them out when you needed them most, when I dragged behind and you wanted me to keep walking.
I remember that night, for the one reason you were proud of me.
I wanted to rest; you dragged me on, saving yourself from being mortified,
Pausing, to let me know you were proud. You knew I was fighting, struggling. Horrified.
You told me to keep walking, I followed you.
You were proud,
I was terrified.