If I talked to you the way I talk to me,
you wouldn’t want to be my friend.
If I told you it was your fault,
that you were asking for it,
that you implied too much
with your words and your outfit,
I hope you would walk away.
If I told you to settle,
to accept the love you think you deserve,
to stay in a toxic relationship,
I hope you wouldn’t listen.
If I bullied you,
pointed out all your flaws,
whispered them in your ear while you were sleeping,
I hope you would lock your door and take away my key.
Your skin is dry.
Your hair is frizzy.
Your stretch marks are enormous.
You look huge in that dress.
Your toes are too long.
I hate when you wear your hair in a bun
and you snore.
Want to get coffee?
Please say no.
If I locked you in your apartment,
never let you have fun,
isolated you from your family and friends,
fed you nothing but chips, salsa, and popcorn…
I hope you would break free.
If I told you to put on a brave face,
to get over it,
to wipe up your tears,
put your big girl pants on,
to avoid your emotions and feelings
and worry about your responsibilities,
I hope you would slap me across the face.
If I blamed you for things beyond your control,
told you that you weren’t doing enough,
expected you to function on five hours of sleep,
I hope you would look at me like I had six heads.
If I rolled my eyes at you
during one of your panic attacks,
called you dramatic,
left the room so I wouldn’t have to hear you hyperventilate,
I wouldn’t expect to ever hear from you again.
If I told guys you weren’t worth their time,
deleted them from your phone,
aired out all your insecurities
so they would never call you back,
I hope you would ignore me.
If I called you stupid when you tried your best,
ugly after a shower,
fat first thing in the morning,
I hope you’d kick me out.
You wouldn’t want to be my friend.
And yet I am my own best friend.
And I take it all.
And I always call me back.