HYPOCRITE

 It’s the little things he did,

That made me hate him more.

The shy acts of love,

That left me craving for more.

Not his bold words and defined gestures,

But his timid ways and silent devotion.

A love so layered and diabolical,

It bloomed a hate so pure.

It’s the little things he said,

That made me want to stay.

He’d worship my curves like prophecy,

Read my body like forbidden scripture,

Say my name like a morning prayer,

Recall my fears in sacred silence,

Just to feed them in a crowd,

And turn my trust into tithe.

It’s the little things he took,

That made me crack and shatter.

The soft joys I once cradled,

Discarded like relics of war.

The fullness of my voice,

Starved into a whispered stammer.

The warmth of my touch,

Wintered to calloused numbness.

It’s the little things he did,

That made me leave.

His sweet venomous tongue,

Soaked in, my insecurities.

His splintered , rough hands,

Branded scars on my flinching heart,

Crusted in frost from his coldness,

Turned from lover to a lesson.

It was the little things he did,

That turned love into grief.