She looked at me with judge-y eyes that swore she had me all figured out. She believed that bags from Prada and makeup from Sephora somehow made her superior to me. She made me believe perfection was a mirror image of her. Smoking was far from classy and leaned towards trashy. That niceness would only come to those she thought were worthy of it. Being a bitch was good, because it was respected. Judgments never took a break, rather broke me down. I became someone I was not and the worst part is, she didn’t do this to me. You want to know who did? He did.
It was all good until you, me, and her were in the same room. In a meeting, I sat in front of him, across the table, while her seat was ironically placed at the end of the table, in between him and I. She uttered words that meant nothing to my ears, since mine were wounded by his silence that was deafening. He then proved to me her words meant more to him than my love ever did.