Matchstick

Take this love off life support,

you can’t play a God you don’t believe in.

It’s either you or it’s me.

There is no longer a you & I.

With the constant regret of solely dependent reliance on a relationship of lingering reminders of the wreckage we have created.

Maybe both our hearts are at stake.

 

She told me I was setting myself up,

I told her there was no loss in trying.

So how did I lose her?

 

She told me to stop being a forest fire when I was only a matchstick.

I told her to look in the mirror,

say it again.

 

But her reflection turned her head in disgust,

hung low in shame.

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t her either,

Insecure from the incidents claimed unintentional that we insisted on naming ingested guilt,

as if it were the only successful thing we had to hold onto.

After all, once you name something you grow attached.

And I named you Mine.

 

She told me I was setting myself up,

I told her there was no loss in trying.

So how did I lose her?

This poem is about: 
Me

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