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Forever

 


Tell me—
is it funny, really?
You asked me to trust, and 
promised, “I’ll do anything if I must.”
I didn’t make you jump through hoops
or test your resolve with if-else loops.

It was you—
always asking, always needing.
Even when I hesitated, I said, Yes.
I did what you asked, though it left me less.
I said, “I’m no mother; I won’t play that role,”
but you begged, “Be mine, you make me whole.”

And when the moment came
to be the man you claimed,
I gave you a choice:
“Don’t stay for the nice-guy image;
choose your voice.”
And you—
you took the easy way out.

Now you call me delusional?
The one who started all the confusion—
was it not you?
Tell me then:
Did you give your mother a choice
to chase happiness after her pain?
When your father died, did she gain
a chance at “better”?

If I was so “mom-like,”
would you have offered her the same right?
To walk away, to find her life?
Don’t put your labels on me,
using “personal choice” and “divine timing”
to suit your needs conveniently.

You laugh at me—
does it feed your ego endlessly?
Now I’m mean, I’m rude,
crossing your lines,
but all was fine
when you crossed mine.

You spoke of your needs from Day One,
but if I shared my truth, I was no fun.
When I didn’t even know you,
I cried, and you whispered,
"I wish I were there to comfort you."
But when I screamed for real,
you found a new zeal—
some other thrill.

If your yes wasn’t forever,
then I owe you no composure.
You will forever
be the monster.

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