Why did you keep my photographs I turned into canvases? So you could tell some chick that you took them? Claim that art as your own?
Why did you keep my appliances? My mixer, my oven, my espresso machine? Wasn’t taking my kitchen away from me enough?
Why did you keep my bike? Did you plan for another female to ride the beloved vehicle I had named, scrolled her name upon her paint, decorated with my favorite images by hand?
Why did you keep my furniture, my drink ware? The bed we shared, the wine rack I displayed my finest choices upon, the glasses that held liquid in my home.
The lamp we bought together, even though it was ridiculously expensive and I insisted. The scarf I’d owned since I was 22, that you claimed without asking to adorn the piece of artwork you’d broken.
You kept some of my clothes? Whyyyyyy? Do you have some kink I failed to discover?
Why did you keep the blanket my friend hand stitched for me before we even met? The “kids” I’d loved so much, that you insisted were a ridiculous purchase? All of my dirty toys? Were you really planning to pass them off as your own, use them with someone else, or had you just not made me suffer enough by destroying all I knew in life?
What was your point, your endgame, your actual fucking reason for denying me my possessions?
Why, when you left me with nothing, when I was at my lowest with barely a shred of even myself left, did you decide to take more?
I guess those questions just go on the list of a million things I could never hope to understand about your behavior. Because I am not like you.
I don’t do my best to hurt people just because I can, even when all they ever did was love me.
The only that thing I kept of yours was your secrets, so that you could keep your life.
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