It is a curious thing, I’ve noticed –
How often a man may clutch his past
Like a sack of borrowed excuses,
Each one rattling louder than the last.
“All my former loves were mad,” you say,
With a sigh, rehearsed to sound like fate.
“I swear they strayed, each, and every one,“
As though betrayal, queued politely at your gate.
Seven women passed through your hands,
You count them carefully, as men do –
Six you named unfaithful in their turn,
Though you slept where their affections grew.
And the seventh – ah, the faithful one –
No wandering heart, no stolen glance;
Yet still, you crowned her crazy
And left her without a second chance.
It is not a good look for you, sir,
This arithmetic of blame and pride.
For when every mirror tells the same tale,
One must ask who stands on the other side.
You claimed you loved them – all of them –
Each devotion spoken, then withdrawn.
Love, it seems, expired quickly
Once it’s novelty was gone.
And now you stand before me, earnest,
With the same old vows, the same old tone,
Asking me to trust a heart
That never stayed where it was sown.
Forgive me if I hesitate –
I’ve learned to read the pattern, too.
When everyone else is always broken,
The damage rarely belongs to only a few.
So keep your stories, neatly folded,
Your well-worn chorus of not my fault.
It is not a good look for you, my dear –
And history has a way of telling the truth after all.