When she created her first poem
When she created her first poem
She wrote it for you
She always thought of you
The paper crisp and white
Just like her soul
Her blood flowed through her words
But you threw away her first honest remark
You tossed it away
You treated her love as folly
The fire ate at its curling edges
Just like your hate
Your pain consumed what only love emanates
Why can’t you forgive her, for me?
Why can’t you wish her well, for me?
She never wanted it this way
And neither did you
But you’re convinced of the lies
Even as she writes
Oh, how she writes
She wanted you to understand
She needed you to comprehend
What words cannot say
But metaphors make clear
Her last poem will never be like the first
I hate what you did to her
You ruined her
You destroyed a friend
And I hate you
But I wish you better
So that one day the words will translate
Why can’t you forgive her, for me?
What can’t you wish her well, for me?
I’m the one who started the flames
If only you would answer her call
Then her words could become memory
And we will learn how to love again