shapes aint shit

i was the spitting image of 
everything that you hated,
but you kept me;
because you needed to feel.
a body, 
or just another breath:
anything to remind you 
that you weren’t alone.
and when your slice of the moon
touched you,
it made me believe that i was saved.
though all along,
when i though you had been writing
'i love you',
and, ‘i’m sorry’
into my skin,
it was really just a tally
of every second that you wanted 
to leave.
to be ashamed,
only meant that i could still feel,
and though i knew it was never my neck
that you dreamt of,
i let you have it,
because i believed it was the only one
that you had.
and at the end of the day,
when your legs became tired,
but your mind was the most awake,
at least you had the decency
to tell the satin girl in your bed
that she was beautiful,
because that was the most that you believed 
she would ever be.