Hurt

You have made your hatred of me public in social media, and on playlists you send me.

You send me another.

You want me to hear you made a playlist about me-- after all, it carries my namesake. My stalking to find it is practically irrelevant. Perhaps I care how you are. What does it matter my intention? It is for me, like a horrid gift of a dead bird on my porch. All is void else wise.

Late at night, over two years post mortem our relationship I settle down to hear what is your peace with a cooler and my dog's steady breath nearby, It is late-- 1:10 am and I feel anxiety pool in my stomach as I see the apology for a title.

I understand your response to my existence. I'm a shit human. I have made peace with that, so I kick my toes up and down respectively presuming nothing more shall wound me.

I am wrong. You blame me with a severity that shames a murderer.

I swallow the liquor by my bedside, and taste the lime on the back of my tongue. I feel something more malevolent on the tip. Something festering, that is angry and hurt. It burns in my soul. I do not take it out on you.

I shake it off, genuinely like a dog of its water. It makes my neck ache and my lips turn upside in a grimace. I do not care. My ache is beyond me. It is not justifiable.

I will not share what you have said, but you cannot keep blaming me for everything.

It’s been years since I have loved you. Since you loved me. Since you knew me.

I returned briefly, and even at my worse I did not deserve this because I loved you, as best I could. I understand that we have traumatized each other., but not enough for you to talk about me still. Not enough to like make a playlist that is burgeoned by rage and hurt.

You do not know me if you think I am so mean. So reckless.

You do not love me. You do not understand my love. Haven’t tried.