it isnt funny

Isn't it funny,

that I still look for you, on quiet street corners, in crowded coffee shops, when you discarded me, like a crumpled receipt

 

Broke me in two,

then asked for a thank you, as if you did me a favor

Ripped me apart, petal by petal,

like a child in a playground, with one question on their lips, but you knew the answer all along.

 

How cruel,

to play a game,

when you didn't share the rules.

You hid the cards, but I found the rulebook, and now it's my turn, to ask a question:

 

How do you sleep?

Knowing you threw away,

the best thing that ever happened to you?