I still have all your letters and the other
bits and pieces.
They are few enough of course,
you weren’t a big one for writing
at least not to me, too busy
Communicating with lovers past
The thing is there is this one
that pinpoints the lie, The one
That pisses me off so much,
The lie in which it never happened
But there it is, talking about the thing
That “never happened”. Talking indeed
About it actually happening.
Strange that, maybe my paranoia
Is strong enough to imagine this
Letter into existence.
I could just get this letter out
for all to see; but really I can’t
I have this principle on that
inconvenient as that might be.
And yet somehow, and some way
I have to find a way to nail
this lie and all its effects.
The anger it causes, that too
which with no release or valve
always turns so devastatingly
inwards. A destructive force
Of course it makes me angry
You condemn me for my reaction
to painful events, things you didn’t
Put others through so of course
They are wonderful by compare
not having to bear that pain
That most intrusive of pains
I suppose it’s so much easier
to be wonderful when you’re
not sharing. In fact I seem
to remember I was seen as wonderful
until I had to deal with that shit
and all of its aftermath, but then
you were never good on cause and effect.
And then you say the event
That caused my reaction, never happened
Just far too unfair I’m afraid.
I’m falling apart. Pretty big time
Shouldn’t be here really but
The lines and the tubes and the care
Mean that I am. Fighting hard
Mainly for the sake of others
Not to go to that place again.
Come to think of it, there is
another lie. I even checked it out
with you being prepared to accept
the possibility of memory defect
being bonkers, as I am. It’s a lie
that should bother me more, would many
people that I know. It pisses me off
for sure. Just doesn’t grate as much
as the really big one does.
footnote (I published this before then deleted by mistake. I’ve changed the title)