I see the pictures you took.

I stumble through them as one blindfolded, following a voice, hoping that voice will guide me true, hoping that voice will keep me from falling.

But my voice was you,

And falling was the point, wasn’t it?

The look of pleasure on your face each time the mask you designed for me began to slip, that’s what I recall in full color against the black and white of us.

It was just too easy for you to say it was me.

But it wasn’t me smiling as you tripped me with insults and gutted me with names.

It wasn’t me reminding you over and over again I wasn’t enough, that I would never change,

How you thought I was smarter than that,

That you were wrong,

Hating me for an open door, a load of laundry, or the dog needing to go out.

The pictures you took while I wasn’t looking were so beautiful that even I believed them and wondered.

But it wasn’t me.