This was all irreparable,
as most things are,
until they aren't,
Deep down,
I had no interest in asking you to do anything for me,
least of all to love me,
more of all,
to offer things up,
and then go back,
in space
Everyone wrote you up for doing things out of the goodness of your heart,
which is just a euphemism for pity,
I had no interest in your pity party,
I don't think your heart is full of goodness,
and only because mine,
I know,
is not
Mistakes are easy to account for,
when you've made them yourselves,
and you start writing about them
and when people start taking your word in good faith
pointing them out becomes a pointed venture,
in and of itself,
and errors in my ways and means,
were making me see your ways,
and then your means,
That's all we ever were,
any of us,
worser versions of someone's predetermined disappointments,
living short lives with points of punctuation,
nothing worth writing home about,
certainly nothing to finish my back---
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