It Just Had to be Your Birthday

Dear you who I don’t know what to call anymore,


In between frozen touches and blank

stares I knew it all along, hidden in your cryptic answers.

Chaste messages. I figured

It can’t be so bad.


If it wasn’t love anymore why

did you continue? Why’d you continue to

torture yourself. As you spoke to me?  You felt

guilty? Do you realize that by your words that I should be

the one who felt guilty! I

was your burden! Your guilt! The weight on your

shoulders! The lump of hair growing

from inside your throat!You said this

even though all I wanted to do was

love you, and

hold you, and

cherish you.


To you, who I poured my heart out to;


To you, who I gave my everything to;


To you, who I regarded as my shelter;


Did you ever even care? Glass half full.

If you could never call me lover,

you would never call with love,

so then you shouldn’t have done it.


You wear affection, like a wool jacket on a hot day,

still you so blatantly lie to me, and in your guilt, you made me feel so awful

--so small.


“I feel guilty loving you for so long.”

 But you never said anything.


It was supposed to be a clear day.

I prepared candles and a cake.

I listed off and wrote hundreds of words

full of amour and kindness. I wanted to give you

everything. The world. My whole world.


I only had you on my mind.

You thought of me too.

But only to say those three words.


“Let’s end this”


Even if it was a sham,

even if your love was just cheap faux fur,

you had me played. 

This poem is about: 


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