Is this the pain I caused you?
Sitting here, feeling like your rotting inside? Replaying past scenes of the other driving insults into the channel a first love opens up?
I blame myself, and rightfully so. You gave me back all the pain I swaddled you in.
But there is a difference between you and me. I told directly when you hurt me, I told you to stop and how things could get better. I made my pain heard.
You took it inside, you lashed out at me from discrete angles and left me wondering why I hated you so much. You never told me how I could make me happy.
We failed us. You left me wrap you around my selfish needs, I took advantage of you. You never complained, but your unhappiness made me unhappy deep down and I only wanted something better, I pulled you tighter.
I stifled you. You choked me.
And now I cry, and I wonder how much you cried when I broke your heart, as you break mine.