Every time, I am blinded.

The sweetest serenades of bliss, head lost in the possibility of ethereality: that destiny maybe was supposed to keep us together. And I don’t care what you say, because passion fades, and then I question if we can muster enough between us to sustain and gain over the pain of waiting. I can honestly say I love you, but I’ve already lived a life with you, save a life with a house and kids, and I decided to divorce you, who lied at every corner where you felt the slightest discomfort and ran at the sound of my footsteps. I’ve heard your flowered words, time and time again, and wonder if that’s the only thing you can do, woo, your actions carrying half-truths, and 100% liability to be misconstrued. I could call you a bitch. Maybe it’s because, at this moment, all boys are just boys and they let hot-blooded rage lead them around. They can’t give women what they want. Because for one or two weeks of paradise, a few excess bottles of your intoxication, I suffer weeks of hangover and humiliation. tears can soak up my eyes and —- and I wonder why I put up with it. I’m caught between loving your beautiful person, and being torn apart by loathing it. It’s always been your hamartia, our hamartia, the tragic flaw that stains our joy the color of shit. It’s not me who needs time. It’s you.