forgive myself, well that’s doubtful, but it’s a cause for relief.
time doesn’t heal. it never did. if anything i hate myself more, now that i hurt the person i loved the most. my heartbreak takes the form of my guilt. i am a useless friend, a selfish lover, a poisoned mind. all the dead seeds. nothing to sow. nothing to grow but anger that multiplies and feeds.
torn the feathers in midst of flight. an exhausted bird falls to its demise. dropping furiously with the wind. the spiral that ingests my righteous believes. i cannot live in parallels and antonyms. be a nice guy with a kind heart then make you hurt and bleed. i love and i hate to love. how can i possibly deal with the eruption of high and lows and remain sane? the unfair call. stripped and raw. picked and ripe. the split.
© simon whittle — from lovers’ tiff: a ballad