On Acceptance of Imperfection


Upon convicting you, I found that I
was not as innocent as I belied.
My complacency gave rise to your doubt
as I merely idled about in silence,
waiting on you to make the moves.

And many moves did you make,
in an effort to escape me, or us
or perhaps to escape the silence
while waiting on me to come around?
Only I was becoming more suspicious.

With suspicion came further withdrawal
falling deeper into a well of uncertainty
until the wall of the well began to leak,
streams of words I refused to hear, to keep
I did not wish to believe them true-

that you might desire to leave,
to seek another, a replacement for me.
An alternate to attention you no longer received
but right then, I could see no fault in me
my blood furiously boiled at your deceit.

I pretended at first to be fine, calm
then acted in spite with words of my own,
defaming your character for personal gain,
then promptly retracted them when I realized
that I was just as easily to blame.

Upon convicting you, there was no denial-
regret clearly swelled in your eyes,
and my sorrow diminished as you unveiled
that without influence of your deceit
your mind was made up, stuck on me.

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