Every time, I am blinded.

The sweetest serenades of bliss,
head lost in the possibility
of ethereality:
that destiny
was supposed to keep us together.

And I don’t care what you say,
because passion fades, and
then I question
if we can muster enough between us
to sustain
and gain
over the pain of waiting.

I can honestly say I love you,
but I’ve already lived a life with you, save a life
with a house and kids, and I
decided to divorce you, who
lied at every corner where you felt
the slightest discomfort and
ran at the sound of my footsteps.

I’ve heard your flowered words,
time and time again, and wonder
if that’s the only thing you can do,
your actions carrying half-truths,
and 100% liability to be misconstrued.

I could call you a bitch.

Maybe it’s because, at this moment,
all boys are just boys and
they let hot-blooded rage lead them around.
They can’t give women what they want.

Because for one or two weeks of paradise,
a few excess bottles of your intoxication,
I suffer weeks of hangover and humiliation.
tears can soak up my eyes and —-

and I wonder why I put up with it.

I’m caught between loving your beautiful person,
and being torn apart by loathing it.
It’s always been your hamartia,
our hamartia,
the tragic flaw that
stains our joy the color of shit.

It’s not me who needs time.
It’s you.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741