Rationalization
It is just my fault..
A short poem..
How many times can a person rewrite a memory before they become the villain of their own story?
To me, the one who stood at the edge of life,
I was not dead yet, and so I felt sorry.
It was not the time I invested in them, nor the work I spent.
They invested in me, and their time was more precious, for it came from someone else.
I am a reader of my own story, yet I hate every word.
Was I so terrible at everything that even the story itself grew cursed?
Do I abide in delusion?
I feel the hand that once fed me now wrapped around my throat, choking what I became.
Even God became a debt collector,
for I was not granted years, I owed them for life.
A mongrel whom even wastrels would feel ashamed to resemble.
I stood beneath the rain, yet I was not shedding tears.
Water was expensive. What if I grew thirsty after crying and could no longer afford her ice cream?
I held the rose in my hand, and its thorns buried themselves into me.
Yet the sight of those blood..red petals only mesmerized me.
I spent a year chasing copper and mechanical coins.
I spent my life on her,
but I suppose she felt she wasted hers.
True. Why would one be wanted more than that?
A purpose fading away, like some forgotten toy in the back of a supermarket.
Ah.
I suppose it struck me harder than I had thought.
Blood dripped upon the cobbled floor while the rain scattered it through the cracks.
From afar, it looked almost identical to the rose's crimson hue,
the one lying in the drizzle,
not dispersing as easily as my ungrateful dew.
To reason with myself over a single thing that happened,
I feel like a failure in a test I never had a chance of passing.
Perhaps I granted amusement.
Perhaps I misunderstood everything.
I am certain it was me, the wrong one to remain.
I feel it here in the rain,
within these bloodshot eyesβ¦.
β¦It is not internal bleeding.
Leave me be.
I still have work at sunrise.
I saw him.
He handed her a bouquet bursting with color,
while I stood there holding a rose that had drained me of mine.
Her favorite flower was a rose,
yet that bouquet held none.
I suppose I was mistaken.
Perhaps I forgot the right one.
She chose white and yellow,
though she always said she loved red.
Look,
the food she once loved was here,
yet she threw it upon the ground
and went to eat something she once claimed to dislike whenever I was around.
It seems I was wrong.
I have not eaten for months.
I truly am incompetent.
I was never completely enough.
Now I sit looking into my rippled reflection within the rain,
as the color of the world slowly drains away.
In life and death, I am merely a debtor,
and even as a soul, I am never the collector.
I fall,
and wake,
and fall again.
I replay that moment more often than I breathe.
I think I understand now.
I was in the wrong.
In that relationship, I believed we were equal.
That belief was merely another lost song.
So in days of love, I owe the rain.
And in the saddest days, I feel as natural as pain.
All other expressions were nothing more than design.
I carried neither a smile nor a frown.
For the villains in this story
were never painted in black and white,
but in the color of the blandest petals.
Wah.
Evan do you need a hug