You tell yourself that I still love you,
You won’t admit it was never true.
After all you did to me,
You must be blind if you can’t see.

You mistreated and abused me,
You know that, but won’t admit it to me.
You’ve asked that I don’t tell her,
I will, of that you can be sure.

I would rather see her cry,
Than for her to wish she could die.
The tears have filled my eyes before,
But they’re not there anymore.

Now I like to see you sweat,
Knowing I will tell her yet.
Does it sound like I love you?
Or can you now admit… it was never true?

 

© 2001

By: Janice Jarnagin