p.145

i’m not a poet i’m just bad at processing
primary emotions and good at swearing.

your apologies
are like offering medication to a patient
whose illness has already been deemed
untreatable.
there’s a poem somewhere in here,
buried under all my bitter,
that will not make up the damage
but maybe help to explain the cause of it.
heartache in the strangest way
and i am trying to wear the anger out,
to exhaust myself
to the point of surrender
for both our sakes.
i am trying to get to the place where
“i forgive you”
doesn’t come through gritted teeth.

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