The Tambourine

I've thought about this a lot.
I wish I can say that I dislike you,
For all the reasons you didn't
Choose me. Love me. Want me.

I've wanted to hit you until
It was enough to make me feel better.
To make me not hate myself
For losing you.

I've thought about this every second.
I wish I can say that I've moved on.
That you don't effect me anymore.
But, every time I get pulled into the memories.

Our memories, your lies and my wants.
You played me like a tambourine.
You were delicate and careful.
I thought I was enough to bring you happiness.

Then that tambourine grew dust,
Lost beneath your bed.
I became lost and forgotten.
You didn't want me anymore.

I became used, old and retired.
I no longer played the tone you wanted to hear,
Or entertained you the way I used to.
A lost, unwanted instrument beneath your bed.

I've thought about all the things I could've done different.
To keep you interested and to make you feel loved.
All I get is this hate inside myself.
This voice that screams, "You weren't enough."

I've wanted to inflict the same pain
On your body and in your heart.
So, you'd know what it felt like to be
Unwanted. Unloved. Unsatisfied.

Now our memories replay when I'm alone.
When I'm lost and afraid.
When I know I'm not enough.
You did this to me.

You broke me.
You left me.
You ghosted me.
You left me like your old drum set in your bedroom.
Untouched. Unplayed. Forgotten.

I've thought about this a lot.
Wondering why a guy like you would do such a thing.
Why you would leave me to turn to dust?
I just wasn't enough for your ego.

I wasn't enough to make you tick,
To make you go the extra mile,
To make you believe I loved you.
I blame myself for trusting you.

I blame myself for holding onto you.
I blame myself for loving you.
I blame myself for thinking that it'd be different.
Believing that maybe I'd be enough for you.

And yes, I've thought about this a lot.
Even after all of this,
I hope for you to be happy.
I only hope that you've learned from your mistakes.

I've thought about this every second,
Hoping that some day
I'd be more to you than some old tambourine
Hidden beneath your bed.

That I was something more, 
Even just a small guitar pick.