Doing Nothing Wrong

I would rather be criticized than lied to.

These little words,
Chirping birds,
That ring instead my head.

“You did nothing wrong.”
The same old song.
“It was something else instead.”

The insincere apology,
The painful inequality
of the ending’s distribution.

The sick, repeating track,
The something that I lack
leading me to this conclusion:

The fault must be my own;
As history has shown
that all the ones I’ve loved have set me free.

They all look me in the eyes,
Deafened to my cries,
“Really, it’s not you, it’s me.”

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