I’m hurt + disappointed.

Our words fly, then goodbyes.

Our goodbyes lead to good riddances.

Was I really that much of a nuisance?

Are we really just different sides of the same child?

I’m sorry you feel that way.

I’m sorry she, me, we weren’t enough.

Was it really that tough–that you had to up and

take your festered feelings and blow them up

into proportions, into fiery explosions that burnt

everyone of us but you?

Our flesh is ruined–and yet your

skin is still porcelain pristine.

So don’t be surprised when we spit words

of hate, when we spit spite at your face.

Did you really think all of this was okay?

You said you thought you were exaggerating,

dramatizing your own feelings–yet you, Shakespeare,

killed off every character in your own play.

So don’t be surprised that you dug your own grave

with your pen of illusory lies,

writing your own story of victimization

and performing your exeunt in the name of religion.

That was really a comedy, a nice relief from this

tragedy that is based on a history you now say

never showed any true signs of friendship–

but we couldn’t help if we were only ill-fated Romeos

that you included in your own love story, starring fair Juliet.

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