Loving you is a decision I made
when I stumbled across your words and fell
into a muddy pool of misunderstanding.
It soiled my shirt, but the splatters
managed to leave your white pants spotless.
You’ve always been like that — sort of teflon
and unreachable, except by your own misfortunes.
I’d dive in and save you, through a fire made of shit,
but it’d spoil how hard you’re trying to drown in it.
You measure yourself against me
as if I were the faded silver of your psyche,
proud that you have passed my grandest achievements.
However, surpassing my best means nothing
unless you have simultaneously surpassed your own.
Thus, as always, you lose,
simply by winning.
My telling you I find you despicable
was inappropriate, and, in truth, a lie.
Rather, your desperate need for affirmation
rent you incapable of believing, perhaps
that no one gave it because you were always wrong.
And though I am terribly sorry for telling you
what an ass you have been, I am mostly sorry
it was true. Despicable was too harsh, however.
If I could have been whom you needed
perhaps your life would have been no better,
but mine would have made the angels weep