Poetry

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You make me feel like leftover dinner.

The kind that you liked the day it was made,

But now that it’s been marinating in the aromas of the fridge for several hours,

You can’t seem to pick up a plate and warm it up again. 

I wish I was that dish you couldn’t get enough of.

I wish I was that dish you preferred every single time.

I don’t know why it hurts to know that I’m not what you prefer, but it does.

I wish it didn’t bother me so much that I’m just not what you prefer, but it does.

I wish your opinion of me didn’t matter so much, but it does.

 

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