it wasn’t so much that you fucked her
or even that I was so blind to it all
for what seems like ages-
it isn’t pride fucking with me now,
this sting is different…made from concentrate
its that this once,
for the first time,
my actions reflected a maturity
that only heartache teases out
when i felt the purest abhorrence
for your person…
still, i anointed your wounds with
the salve of forgiveness…
time and again while you
were miserably lonely
i opened my hearth
(but never again my heart)
to that
shameful, shivering, smoke screen
you call a soul
no…it isn’t so much about what you did
as much, as it is all about how i did

nevertheless, if given the chance
i'd still rip your heart out,
and replace it with the organ that
is truly motivated by your desire

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