Martyr/Victim/Mother/Ex-lover

This is gonna hurt me more that it’s gonna hurt you… but how would I know?

The place in your heart, filled with the dark,
rancid hearts, past expiration,
because I can’t make excuses for what I am.
I am sick– aren’t we both?
Here we are- like before,
don’t you need me?
I don’t need you anymore,
the listless shuffle and disputes,
fed to each other
back and forth.
Stifles to the core– self satisfaction in being right,
forget right now,
living in someone else’s fantasy
that didn’t play out anyway.
This room is dreadful, cold and lonely at night.
You & me, alive, in different homes,
One of us moving forward,
the other holding on.

…but doorstops make poor friends,
every beginning finds it end.
And we’ve reached our limit.

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