Self-sabotage, perhaps

“Treat others with kindness”

My hands shake like they used to when we were drunk on soft glances and sudden intimacies. Well they don't shake right now, they tremble in fear, in terror; but shake and tremble are similar enough aren't they? It's just a poet’s muse mulling over the details that don't matter in the bigger picture. Perhaps that's what killed us, our eye for the irrelevant details, things we could have swept under the rug right next to the other shattered parts of ourselves. I did try to do that, the mound got too big and then I staggered stumbled and tripped: you weren't there to catch me as I fell face first onto the floor. So when I thought you were falling face first like I was, I held my hand out to catch you but my love je m'excuse I only pushed you harsher into the jagged glass, jabbing, pricking your old sores and inflicting new ones. You dripped blood I gushed tears, not only for the pain I caused but also out of the realization how you still stood up bandaged your cuts and held my hand again.

”With great power comes great responsibility”

They weren't tears of pain but of horror, of elation. The control coursing my body was what I had been lacking in us. Knowledge that the tips of my fingers could cause so much harm so much damage killed the human in me. I was a ravenous beast, I chomped down your dreams and cut open your kindness. I sucked your hopes out and cleanly skinned your trust off of you. I gnawed through your confidence for no reason but that it was blocking my view in a room of imagined fantasies that I no longer visited. I guess I am not responsible because I should have fortified your confidence with the superglue of reassurance, safeguarded your trust with bites of affection and nurtured your kindness with the spring of gratitude.

But I didn't, and I have no remorse,

We were adults, you were an adult you made the conscious choice to stay, how am I to blame for its consequences right? Right?

“What goes around comes around”

A drop of benevolence sprayed through some veiled crack to make me see the mirror, it wasn't you on the other side but me. In some contorted way I had fooled myself into believing that my actions hurt you beyond a mere scrape, those imaginary wounds that dripping blood was mine from my torturous impaling, jab after jab. And yet my deranged self was intoxicated on the smell of bleeding cuts so I grabbed the last piece of my desire and crushed it under the boot of infidelity.

A fallen angel can only sneak in precious moments in this hidden heaven, with limited time, limited by their actions so as we stand here at crossroads of my actions and my sins; I stand before you, blood soaked with missing chunks of flesh, and bid you adieu, I can no longer marinate my delusions of being worthy.

-p