Never thought I’d say this:
I can not make nice with you.
I’ll fix what I can,
I’ll do my part,
But you, you need to meet
me somewhere in the middle–
I promise not to make that middle
near quicksand,
over a fire,
under a falling bridge.
Why is it different this time?
Perhaps, I’ve aged–
or learned,
learned that giving in,
apologizing when I have
done nothing wrong,
accepting blame to soothe
your own bruised ego
Landed me squarely
alone, empty, and set up
for another round of
disappointment.
Perhaps I have learned
that allowing you to dominate
weakens you–
You, like the king of your lion’s
pride, owning the world
and caring little for others–
but time will win.
What kind of loser will
you be then?
Oh, Emilia. You did not choose
wisely.
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