Love letter # 125

Things understood slowly are all the more dreadful. The creeping dawn. The inescapable conclusion. The fact I got away with it.

It wasn’t you, babe – it was me. I was the screw up. You told me who you were, but I pretended you were someone else. I was the deluded one. You were just crazy.

What a fire you were; but that was no excuse. I chose these burns. They were all I had of you.

But I’m here now, and I quite like it.