raCrooked, you are.
I know this;
I knew this,
but I wear denial well like that--
my own pretty red dress
with my own pretty red lips
and my own pretty red hair:
all dressed up with nowhere to go,
nowhere to go but here,
this nothingness full of ridiculous dreams.
Incarus-me... I am too hopeful of you.


And I get so low,
I come tumbling down
when I dismiss all that you,
all that you say.
The silence speaks louder
than everything else
with a heart-shattering volume
of unheard truths
misreplaced to the back of my mind,
out of my sight.
You're slick like that.
You're sly.
And I, myself?
Well, I lie well...
to myself.
I ignore all the red flags
and all the bad feelings,
like choking back opinions
for fear of violence.
I excuse it all
as just my lack-of-assertiveness.
All my fault.

In January, I tried.
Tried to care enough about me
and less about you.
I tried to walk away.
But I didn't want to leave you alone
and be just one more woman
added to your pile of unaccountable exes.
Really, it wasn't about my 1,2,3's.
I was very loyal.
Especially in the early hours of Nextday,
I always came to you,
your own follow-me-home puppy.
I should have left the first twenty times
you didn't return the favor.
Rarely a "Thank you"
and never a compliment,
never "I'm sorry" or "Let's fix it."
Always the shutdown,
always the cutoff.
Then always the rage
and always again, it's all my fault.
Never a compromise;
just me accomodate you
over and over and over.

And still, I stayed.
And flew and flew and flew
with hope-song in my heart
and you always on my mind.
I just didn't want you to think
I gave up on you.
Some notion in my mind that
you were merely grieving.
But I won't hold my breath no more,
no, I wouldn't wage that much.
It seems I've falsely put
much faith in all the wrong things.
I believed more in the good in you,
believed more in the cynic in me,
believed less in intuition,
believed less in rationality.
Yeah, I thought I needed to change,
thought I was waiting
a little too sure in the downfall--
thought my attitude was just too shitty.
My fault. Always mine.
And I felt crazy. I felt misused.
I felt denied, declined, defined,
playing a role I always objected to:

Hysterical girl. Black Mercury.
One more call you purposely missed,
almost incoherent voicemail,
"I can't do this anymore!"
followed by angry, angry texts,
"You expect me to jump when you say jump,
then wait until you say jump again!
I'm sorry I'm not your dog!"

And still, I stayed.
There once was a time I said adamantly,
"I'll never be THAT girl."
We turned me into her.
And I cried and I raged and I felt so alone
So exhausted, defeated, and in a blur.
But none of that mattered;
only you did.
Your world. That's all.
With your alcohol-pot-exwife addiction
Bar room fighting, mean-worded bully conviction
and unpredictability.
You could be so sweet one moment
and searing cold the next,
the anxiety rose and rose and rose!
I'd crack under pressure of no conversation,
unresolved issues turned into resentment;
the frustration swelled.

And still, I stayed,
with but a handful of hope,
and a faint glimmer in my eyes,
repeating the words at least a hundred times,
"If he would just hit me, then I'd know.
If he would just hit me then I'd know
it's on him and not on me."
But never was a wallop,
so I thought it must be me,
"If I could just do this, if I could just say that..."
I wished, wished, wished for us
to finally click into place.
Yes, I was waiting for the lock to latch.
I never stepped far enough back to even distinguish
what that really meant,
too caught up in trying my best to satisfy,
brainstorming ways to please.

Well, wishful thinking moved us no closer.
You said not to expect anything,
so shame on me.
Yes, shame on me,
I've allowed you too... I've hurt myself twice.
First time, your fault.
This time, mine.
Said I wouldn't,
you said you wouldn't;
no more bullshit like before,
you said you knew you hurt me so.
I had to believe there would be no more,
but soon enough, "more" turned "worse",
much worse the second time around.
And your actions?
They are yours
just like mine are mine.
You were cruel, but I let you be,
calling your tactics
situational and temporary;
said I knew it'd get rough
but I'd be there for you.
Taking care of you meant
not taking care of me.
I thought harsh times would end,
but the psychological violence
grew and grew, and grew some more.

And still, I stayed.
I kept waiting for you to straighten
but crooked, you are. Oh, foolish me!
Cuz I knew this, I know this,
yet somehow I forgave this.
And we melted me away.

It didn't matter
that you once whambamthankyouma'am-ed me,
it was all bad timing.

It didn't matter
that I was a secret to nearly all within your life,
it was the divorce.

It didn't matter
that I was hurting all the time,
I was being emotional.

It didn't matter
that you said and did mean things,
it was a joke or the alcohol.

It didn't matter
that you once threatened your life
after we had argued,
it was the holiday season
and you were depressed.

Always a reason why I should be feeling guilty,
why I should apologize;
my feelings and concerns didn't matter,
not much to you, not much to me
I am so finished with that!

The last sentence I said to you was
you had to forgive me someday
since I always forgave you--
a No Acceptance alarm went off in my head.
No longer do I need your approval,
no longer do I seek your praise.
I'm more worried now about a never-coming day
that I'll forgive myself;
I allowed you to destroy so much,
and in that, I've betrayed myself.
Songbird, sunfire, I no longer sing
a merry little tune,
oh Incarus-me, oh Incarus-me.
Crooked, you are!


Forever changed am I.