We were young

That’s often the problem

Muttering “love” on the second week

You told me I needed to love myself,

To love myself before I love anyone

So I left to go find myself

To then have returned to you

Loving yourself with another self

I then turned to myself

The one you said to find

And tore off the skin you said was too bronze,

Punctured the lips you oh so loved,

Burned the morals that sheltered you in the thunderstorms,

Skinned the hands that held you,

And broke the legs that stood for you

when the crowd had turned against you.

I had never thought I’d obsess over morality after that,

I never thought I’d seek out purpose in everything.

But mostly,

I never thought I’d turn to Latin for shelter,

For that day I wept,

“Et tu, Brute?”