I’m done in. So tired.
Yet still I take on more.
Can’t say no to needy souls.
Leaving me broken.
Shamed, emotionally sore.
My life, I’m afraid, can’t unfold.
Who knows how many times we’ve split:
Is it five, nine, twelve times, or more?
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?
SLAM. You score.
Because I called you a bore.
BAM. You skip.
After you give me some lip.
DING. I throw.
You’re no longer my beau.
DONG. I yell.
Living with you is hell.
DAMN. We’ve lost.
Are we counting the cost?
Criticise me to make you feel big
Belittle my efforts to cut me quick.
Pick your topic to slice me deep,
one that’s callously, coldly cheap.
Mock my spirit, fool my world.
Your cruelty’s the grit to my inner pearl.
Because in your denial you’re up to your eyes.
So who are you to criticise?