Though you are not with me,
your eyes are on me, watching.
Waiting for me to err,
so you can feel justified
in hurting me again,
so you can punish me again.
What remains?
How can you hurt me more?
If I stay,
will you lay your hands on me
to cause me pleasure,
or to cause me pain?
Do you care if I am happy,
or do you merely want the feeling
back in yourself?
Do you want to show me
that you love me,
or do you just want to see it in me
that I love you, and no other?
I want to move on
from what I've done,
but it seems that you do not.
Must I leave you behind,
so as not to drown in my misery,
your misery,
your bitter hatred of what I did . . .
of me?
Will you cut my skin,
my heart,
with your claws
every time I expose it to you?
Stop!
Please . . .
this is killing me!
I'm eternally bleeding,
and you only salt my wounds—
you make me believe
that nobody cares,
that I deserve to die
because I've stepped on some toes,
though I've been on my knees
at those feet
for two hundred days.
You refuse to let go
of your hatred
because you fear . . . that doing so
will cause you to open up,
to trust again,
to get hurt again.
And now . . . so do I.
You wouldn't let me help you heal,
you only pushed me away,
you only tried to make me feel
what you were feeling,
and it's worked.
I am afraid
of the man I love,
a flux that sickens me.
I am afraid of the angry you,
and you are angry now.
I am afraid to try to please you,
fail, and be rejected,
thrown away again.
I am afraid
to be the cause of all your problems,
the reason for all evil,
your punching bag, again.