I don’t know what I could have been thinking, posting a post
like that, a poem she couldn’t help but get offended by.
I can’t even argue that she mis-read it.
She’s smart enough to read my unconscious wishes, when I can’t
read them for myself.
A poem should not be used as a weapon, even by the unconscious,
like a knife between the shoulder blades by a once-trusted hand.
Caesar could not have felt so betrayed as she must have,
seeing it posted as it was.
I took it down, driving a stake through its heart, yet it
was not enough, splinters of the poem remaining fixed in the wound to haunt
both of us later, to raise doubts about whether this thing we had was right in
the first place. I burned the poem in self-sacrifice and even that won’t do,
writing another in apology she cannot accept, and perhaps should not, scared
about what the first poem signified and whether she can expect a back-stabbing
again.
What was I thinking? How can I make amends?
Or am I so scared of her I make a beautiful thing come to an
end, driving the spike do deep in its chest as to sever its spine.
What was I thinking?
Obviously, I was not.
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