This poem is recycled from a previous unstructured rant that I did for an artwork long ago. I’ve been wanting to write a poem about it being my fault and I only just recently realised that I’ve written it before, sort of. When I read this again, it felt current. (Which is sad on so many levels.)
I don’t know. I wonder if you think it’s my fault.
I can’t help but think –
It was all my fault.
It wasn’t really; I know that.
Sometimes it’s just a confluence of factors,
As I say, far too often about far too many things.
But I can’t help but think of everything I could have done better.
(Even though you could have to.)
Like – never dismissing you or
Mistreating you or
Being pissed at you being
You and all your flaws and
How much I loved you anyway.
All those half-remembered mistakes.
Now, the only time I can say your name is when I’m alone.
Your name rolls off my tongue into the darkness,
Into the air that is my one companion as I
Wait to see you in the world behind my eyelids
(Not intentionally but not ungratefully).
I wrote that long letter to you
To prove to myself that I could be the one to walk away –
This time, the last time.
Truth is, I’m still stuck at the same place;
Again, you were the one who left me after all.
Ultimately, when everything has been stripped bare,
When sensation has disappeared from my skin,
Only you are left.
The ‘me’ that I’ve built up with each action is a mere distraction
From the harsh reality that I’ve given all of myself to you,
(Too much for you to possibly bear).
Why do I still hope for you to come back to me?
You – the almost-lover reduced to the
Other end of an insincere handshake,
Those that are meant to say – “I wish you all the happiness in the world”.
It was the last time we touched,
But I couldn’t even look you in the eye;
I didn’t want you to see that I didn’t mean it,
And I didn’t want to see that you felt nothing.