I think I love you, I say,
and he turns on the gaslight.
He makes me think of it all differently.
The Polaroid of my naked body was a bookmark
and he just used me to find his place.
Our slow dancing in the kitchen was because of the music,
not because he wanted to keep me close.
I see it clearly now.
I look at the ceiling,
the light above the stove
and wonder if it feels burnt out too.
If You’ve Been Gaslighted, You Know How This Feels
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