open
I’m not writing to you.
I’m not.
I’m just writing.
Working on being bad at lying
again.
Like I was with my parents
not with him, or you.
I don’t want to be callous
any more.
I want to be open.
And it’s working, but the thing of it is
being open is admitting that I miss you
or what you used to be, anyway.
We could have been great
if you could have grown up.
But grown up or not you were still my best friend
my best living friend anyway.
Sometimes being honest means saying
'I’m not trying to be a martyr,
but my whole life has been a trial.’
And if you always found me guilty
what’s the point of being innocent anymore?
You told me I would leave
Always,
you always told me that
So I did.
