To the me I never was:
It’s my fault you aren’t here,
I didn’t take that turn.
I didn’t dance that night.
I never tried with him.
I never wrote that book.
I never did what I needed to do,
Never did what was necessary to become you.
And for that,
Who knows what I could’ve been.
Who knows how happy I’d be.
Who knows what things I could’ve done
and things I could’ve seen.
But that’s all over now because
I was too afraid to be the real me.
Because of me you were never born.
Never got to have your chance in the sun.
Never even came out of that place
I pushed you inside because
I didn’t want to open up.
I didn’t want to be the person I knew I was.
The me I want to be is dead.
I killed you.
I murdered you,
and my sentence is to live
in the prison I built myself
in order to not let you breathe.
The one who lived to make you die.