I wanted to tell you, how I'm finally
immune to your poison and then I realized
it was pointless as you never listened to me,
anyway. And yet here I am, writing words
that you will never read, which has me
questioning-what's the point?
Yet still, I can't seem to bring myself
to stop even when I know it's unlikely
you will ever read these written words
and just as unlikely that I will ever utter
them out loud to you. And even so-I continue.
I guess I have to release them even
though we both know they will never
float within your direction. Maybe it's
simply about smugness and pride, or
forgiveness and absolution. I know I
will never know which because I'll
never whisper these words within
your ears.
And although I'd like to think it's the latter,
because after all, wouldn't that make me the
better person? I genuinely cant say which it
is...I'm not even sure myself. But what I
do know is this...you can't hurt me anymore;
your poison doesn't seep into open wounds
but merely slides over healed scars, and I
know now, finally,
