Exile

The pain is what made me. They made their way out and I walked in; I sat inside alone again; I never should have asked for this. I was broken long before she came, Before they could bear to look at me the same. They said, “Something is off that we can’t quite name,” It struck and I shut myself away. The pain was made for what I became; And I was the only one to blame. I used to drown to fill the wound, Until I couldn’t feel the flame consume; All at once, I found a way through, When everything had felt too soon— It was only myself that kept me from you. I am never enough of what they need; She didn’t want the rest of me. I cut her off to watch it bleed, I burned the bridge to make her leave; She never even felt the need. The way out was back before I walked out Of my life And laid down beside her that night. I damaged myself to heal, To feel Anything that held a knife. I let it out like I had trapped it inside. The light broke off— I can no longer stand to watch my hands Tremble. The day will come when I get it right. My body, scar-filled— The apology I must owe I ruined it before I could know; They told me over and over to let it go.