When I take stock of myself,
there is no doubt that I am,
by all reasonable definitions,
a complete fucking mess.
That alone, as I sit outside on a cold winter’s night,
would be enough for the blame to fall on my shoulders,
and blaming myself would save the illusion of you I’ve created in my mind.
That would be convenient, but I refuse to accept convenience anymore.
I refuse to make my love for you easier and less complicated
by not acknowledge the person that you are.
I refuse, point blank, to love myself any less for lack of you.
That convenient truth is one I can no longer subscribe to.
I love the pure image of you. You
shimmer through the crystal my eyes have become.
You are beautiful, you are all I’ve ever dreamed you could be,
and yet you are undeniably still human.
I feel the blood pouring from my cuts, and know that it’s because of you.
These are your wounds, and I will not blame myself for them.
That would be easier. That would make me hurt less,
but I need the pain of truth.
I love you, but I love myself more,
and so I must accept the hurt and
place the blame where I feel it belongs.