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So. I don’t really know what to say (not any more).

I know you saw me. And I’m sorry, but not for that.

I’m sorry that you had to see it. And I’m sorry that it’s your fault.

I’m also sorry that I can’t say I didn’t want to hurt you (because I did). It’s just that lying gets so hard after a while.

But I didn’t lie to you. Not at first.

But then you kept asking, and asking, and asking. What was I supposed to do—I wanted (needed) you to feel that pain, but I wasn’t quite ready.

And then you did something that made (forced) me to do it. You brought her home… again.

One single strand of blonde hair. That’s all it took for you to throw us away.

You tried to tell me it wasn’t anything. But by then it was too late (I was in on it too).

The first time I tried it was the same night you brought her home. You thought I didn’t see, but you forget that I know (everything).

It was revenge—a way to make you feel the same knives that kept stabbing through my own heart. Then it was an addiction, a drug, that I succumbed to all too often.

But I tried to get off it. I tried to (clean up).

Even after you quit, I tried. But sometimes habits are hard to break.

Just like desire (the desire to hurt you). I couldn’t do it; I failed.

You always hated failure. But I guess you hated (cheating) more, because you swore never to do it again.

I didn’t. You didn’t make me, either (not that night).

I guess you didn’t think you’d come home (to find me with someone else). You never did.

That’s why it’s your fault. Not mine.

You never expected anything, never wanted anything, never gave anything. You (never) let me be anything.

So I’m sorry that you walked in (at the wrong time). I’m sorry that you were the wrong person for me.

And I’m sorry that you had to see it. But I’m not sorry that I let you.

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