here is what I left unsaid

I would rather blame the world, blame lovers who left scorched earth, books that addled my brain, the poems that rung from my bones,

than blame my own weak heart.

That now beats melancholy  against my rib cage,

I miss you I miss you I miss you

A bitter, quiet staccato

because who will listen to the murderer’s regrets, who will listen to the thief’s sorrows?

I think I am harder than I really am, and you made me soft and careless about the things one shouldn’t be careful about

But I fought to keep me the way I wrote myself, the way I insisted I was

and what I wish most of all is that I could tell you

I miss you I miss you I miss you

That isn’t what I was, that isn’t what I am.

 

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