And with that wound to the heart born of cruel enlightenment -
I am affected, and afflicted, to find that He has finally decided to love another.
Who might She be, so superior to me?
How beautiful, Ethereal, Godly must she appear to Him?
Whom could never suffice to provide,
how lowly then am I?
I surmised as engaged that which was nothing but courteous exchange.
His pity shed for foolish me, anguished for His affections,
I was so simple and narcissistic, to imagine any potential ever living.
With that, I am crushed by the weight of a deserved but savage modesty.
How insignificant to His life, diminutive, unworthy must I be?
The sinister sentiment - that He has chosen not only not me, but She - devours all sureness of self and all of my esteem.
Spiteful as I am, I will deny Him tears.
I will cease gratifying such an immense ego and perchance depart with some pieces of dignity.
It is so hard, despite it so long since His immensity last gratified me.
He will never realize the plague on me He's infected,
Never witness the wounds on me He's inflicted,
Never recognize the hopeful heart He's afflicted.
After all this time, perhaps I've accepted that when I come back to You I meet Defeat.
This time, instead, perhaps I take what's left of myself and leave.
Perhaps, I beg, perhaps...
We'll see.
