See, I am a poet and I know how to stick to my lane. That was before I loved to play with your mane in the rain. Maybe that is why I am in pain because I’m no longer your main.
No, I did not come for a match; we were a perfect match, and yes, I did carry a match. I stroke my match just to ignite the fire in your thoughts because you’d be my gasoline. Sparks. Flames. When the last kiss sparked you let the flame burn your skin from within. I’d have wiped your wet eyes were it not for the knife that you lodged in my chest. Closer, and you twisted it such that I could no longer bleed from the inside. Much closer, you left a wound, so I let go so I would heal.
I am sorry I burnt that bridge we’d stood on for so long and that’s wrong. My wounds healed but they left scars of you. Scars that remind me that hearts made like mine break the fastest. I let my heart break so that the pieces remind me how much I am left to give.
Actually you are not the fear in my hatred. You are the tiny pieces in my eyes that I carry because I somehow feel that you are worth the weight. I would look for a hollow ground to bury the dead fragments of my soul but I prefer to get deeper in the mantle so that I would enjoy the cremation. Trust me I am not where you left me, I’m at everywhere I’ve never been, and though I miss you, it occurs to me that you had a big heart but it wasn’t meant for two.