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

 

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