I find it all hard to understand
what you bring in my life.
What you bring.
A collapse of certainties about love
and consistent trials of pain and confusion
amidst
hopeful moments of laughter, understanding
and courage to believe in change again.
What you bring.
But I find it all hard to understand.

Because although it seems complex
it is straightforwardly consistent
with hurtfulness.
In the end I always feel the same way.
I always hate you just as much.
I always wish I would never see you again.

You wanted so desperately to see me you said.
And look,
an empty bed.
But isn’t this what I always write about?
Is this not the story book for your tale?
Because as much as I want to love you for
every good thing about you,
in the end I hate you for how hurt I always feel
and I am thankful for my empty bed.

I’m going to say it’s not that hard to understand
what you bring in my life
because it’s vague and unjustified
rickety and unholy
and it leaves me alone always
wishing I had never believed in you again
knowing that what you bring in my life
you always take away.