Yes. I wielded the knife.
Coated with my word poison, I plunged it into your soul and the dagger spread like cancer through you, I could see it metastasizing every time you tilted your head to let your hair cover your face.
If I could take that blade and plunge it into my own heart now, I would before my next beat.
I would take back the cancer and smile as the tumors fought for residency inside of me, if I knew that you would be in remission from my cruelty.
Sometimes it takes three months for the recoil of punches thrown to take its effect. When it does, laying on your basement couch, trawling through an online poetry forum, your knuckles will fracture and your finger bones will cleave in two like firewood.
I doused you with the lighter fluid I spit and set you ablaze with the words I wrote. I watched your tears turn to ash.
And then I lit another match.
I turned my back as you smoldered, now your anger fed the flames I sparked.
Now my bones are brittle and dry, my marrow now tinder for you to set aflame.
Burn me with the hellfire I put you through, I need this self-assigned penance, and you deserve to watch me burn.
Take the charcoal that remains and draw yourself in perfect mirrors, sketch out the picture of yourself that I should have showed for you.
I once promised you that I would, remember?
I am so sorry.
I stood there, the whole time, with a water bucket in my hand.
I had your reflection, and I spilled it on the floor.
Set me on fire, let the crackling of my bones beneath the weight of the flame be the lullaby as you sleep.
Ten thousand apologies are nowhere near enough.