As I sit here.
I try to figure out the calamity.
That is my life.
The calamity that you created.
When you left.
Without saying goodbye.
But saying you could never have loved anyone more.
You left your hollow shell here.
You left it with me.
I keep saying you did this.
You created this world in which I hate the ether.
It sounds like I blame you.
Maybe part of me does.
But mostly I blame myself.
But these self medicating pity parties
Don't really push me out of these dark places.
They make me bleed and bleed.
From every open wound that never heals.
Because I keep picking at those scabs.
In truth.
You are not the creator of my hell.
Nor are you it's doorwoman.
It is me.
Me and every manifestation of my sins.
We have created this home.
And now I don't know how to be free.