two months of struggle, and two more of grief,
I must admit that math
might have worked in my favour, Cutie thief:
I promised you I'd give you
love and happiness on demand;
I promised myself I'd learn
from any moment we would have.
It turned out that you got
good talks, good food, and weekend fun;
It turned out that I got
taste, touch, smell, sight, and sound.
But later it happened to you
that you couldn't escape your patterns
and remained snared in your ways:
hurtful, deflective, mute... avoidant when it mattered.
And later it happened to me:
I could see your traits, their pace,
and I turned myself free:
caring, loving, gorgeously brave.
You tightened then the grip around your heart
in the chain prison where you trapped it.
I made then a rent-free room for you,
in the prostitute's hotel of my heart-beats.
And while it's true that it was hard to let go
after 18 years of panic that hurt like a knife,
not having flayed my skin to patch your wounds
was the bravest decision of my life.
You now resent me for not being unconditional
and walking away by saying the words you couldn't provide;
I now thank you deeply for having been my Bêta Test
with whom -in every phase- I learned how much I grew inside.
You remained yourself after me
and I transformed myself after you
(Math indeed worked in my favour, see?).
