You’re the villain of my story
It’s easier to say than believe.
This battered heart still cannot accept this
as fact.
You’re an antagonist at best
Because I want to believe
there’s good in you.

I’ve run out of clichéd comparisons,
pseudo academic symbolism, and
luminous imagery to describe you.
I’ll be blunt with my pen
You’re flawed and arrogant,
stubborn and ignorant
at worst.

Every line I write will never reach you.
We’ve blocked each other in our virtual rooms.
I’ve moved quite far to have to not run into you.
You’ve got a ring attached
to an unfaithful friend
and you hope you both never end.

He’s a villain in all this too,
yet I rarely give him blame.
He’s Americanized his name;
gave up his culture to get ahead.
It’ll make a better life for you two
once you gentrified yourselves
to the pale blend.

It’s cruel irony to have been abused
and bear the name of a the bringer
of that pain to my family view.
I forgave that man because I can,
but I’ll never forgive you.
At least, not for now.

I’m the villain of your story too.
I believe that’s true.
This battered heart accepts the fact
I fucked up loving the protagonist
I saw in you.

I’ve run out of clichés,
symbols and imagery to describe
my thoughts of you,
so I’ll be blunt instead:
I’m absolutely terrified of you
and worried you will return.