Do I ever stop blaming you for the matter of it all,

Or for the breakups I've caused,

Or for the face lift I paused,

Or simply because I have a gathering of thoughts and nowhere to dump any but on the wall.

Dooms day made more sense, when I moved towards not loving you.

When I, picked up my feelings and threw them on the ground,

When I, ate up your ways of healing from driving myself into town,

When I, lashed out at you right in front of my daughter's eyes,

Was it so, because I, saw a fever burning through a salt-lick cry.

Am I to blame for not trying when I was limp, for not causing a mistake to open again, for not taking time to gather the dust, or for not giving you my time to sweep it under the rug, for not making scandals up in my head, for not leaving you when you said, "a maker will only abide by his maker, but a scavenger will only hunt the more she is fed."

You place blame on the riddles you very much so drew all over my body.

You gave this scamp-y body a reason for God to cover me, lay his head by me, and to drive his sweet dearest away from me.

You've made more sense to love me in scars, whelps, honey scrapes, folding cuts, then to have damaged a bleeding womb with a dire need of a feathered-lilac-and an encapsulated temperament.

Damn you baby,

You've loved me so good.

So tell the story correct, mphm?

I couldn't leave you,

I could not leave a man with a brave face, Caesar-like beard, loosely buckled pants, and a scathing branded brain.

I could not leave a man who branded me -- out in the wilderness for only God to see.

But.

I am to blame, for I, drew thee.

And I hung you out to dry like a full covered freshly orange painting.

You, my friend, can wait for this paint to swallow up,

But I,

I shall...