The end of twenty-two
was supposed to be goodbye
and this was supposed to be
a love poem.
This was supposed to be a sweet song
about you and I,
about the love we share
how it never quite worked
but we’re still friends
(that lie tastes bitter
even as I’m writing it).
This was supposed to be a letter to you
about how I no longer hated you,
how I forgave you
for making me crazy
for making me sick
for making me into someone I’m not
someone I never was
but it’s coming out in
sharper bits and pieces
crushed in open hands
accusatory slurs and pointed fingers.
But that’s just us, isn’t it?
And we’re getting a little old
for these games.