Tired of getting raped

It is sad,
so sad that it makes me want to cry,
that you find me interesting,
interesting enough to fall in love with,
or to care for,
or to worry about.
It is fucking sad,
so fucking sad that it makes me cringe,
that you think I am amazing,
amazing enough to go to when you need help,
or to check in with when hours have gone by without a word.
It is so fucking sad
that you think I am good
or great
or mysterious
or smart
or insightful
or genuine
or any other word that you choose in the moment.
It is sad because
you do not know me,
have any idea who I am
or what I am about,
instead you have this image
in your head
of what you want me to be
and I silently try to fit that mold
and be that person,
but it is never me
and those words you say
and those feelings you have,
are directed at that idea of me
that you cling to,
that you love
and find amazing
and cherish,
and it is all in your head
as I sit across the table from you,
confused and saddened,
that it has happened again.

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