Served

I’m trying to be your friend now—

trying to cook the past into something edible,

something I can swallow without it slicing me open.

But reality keeps turning my stomach:

you gnawed on the parts of me that mattered,

left bite marks on pieces of me that weren’t on the menu.

I trusted you with the kinds of stories that don’t have punchlines—

the ones people keep hidden because it costs something to tell.

And you served them to your friends like appetizers,

a little amuse‑bouche version of me I only shared with you.

You treated my vulnerability like something you could pass around,

like loyalty was optional,

only owed to whoever sat at your table,

whoever you chose to serve your attention to that day.

Like your betrayal wouldn’t eventually

come back up for me to choke on.

Now here I am—

trying to stand beside you as if the ground isn’t scorched

with all the ways you proved I wasn’t safe with you.

Maybe someday what’s between us will marinate into something tender,

but today I am digesting the truth:

a friend doesn’t serve your confessions on a platter,

a friend doesn’t offer your heart up for tasting.

Now the aroma finally fills my senses:

you were never a safe place.