a poem for over

Tit for tat, we shout

insult here, grievance there.

Why stay together

when we’re both stressed out.

Blame is the name of the game

you think I’m playing.

I’m tired of you pointing out

my faults.

In my wounded heart

I’m better off alone.

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Unlucky thirteenth?

Who knows how many times we’ve split:

Is it five, nine, twelve times, or more?

Whatever.

Each time, we end back right where we started:

Square one. No better, no further.

The same old reunion,

the promises made anew.

Waiting for the other to change,

and no change beginning to come.

Then the same old fights,

scrabbling down the same old paths

of recognition and delusion.

So I wonder if this time, when we finally split for real

– for probably the thirteenth time –

will it possibly be lucky for some?