I Never Wanted

I never wanted to enjoy seeing you smile.

My lips have kissed galaxies of insecurities before you,

the happy endings within the crevices of their loneliness

slowly melted away,

with every incinerating word of mine

they came across.

I never wanted to break you.

My intentions were to dent the ice sculpture around your heart,

not to shatter the twinkling lights of hope in your eyes,

or to surprise you with the fragrance of my dying spirit.

I never wanted to give you forever.

The carpel tunnel given to me at birth would

never allow me to hold onto you long

enough to make you happy.

I never wanted to be your treasure box of heartbreak.

My own cookie jar of fluctuating solemness still

overflows with the mistakes I've made before you

and after you.

I never wanted you to stay gone.

My purple pill of prevention was meant

to decrease the pain of losing you,

not to accelerate the agonizing grief in my bones.

I never wanted you to be my goodbye letter.

The words of love I spoke into existence did nothing

to keep our future bright and beating,

nor did your cowardly nature stop me from realizing

you didn't want me to bring you back to life.

You never wanted to exist without me.