I suppose it’s easier to hate you.

Forgiveness is for fools, right?

I look around. I hope and pray,

then turn and mull things over;

my hoping turns to brewing

until even my prayers seem bitter.

I want to say I am sorry,

even though you no longer care.

So you go about your day,

carry on as if I am no longer there.

And I only play accordingly . . .

I suppose that is childish too –

to think that any of my problems begin or end with you.

Nothing about this seems fair,

but what can we do?

We have said all we can,

whether or not any of it was true.

This is growing up, I guess.

This is letting go.

This is coping with the pain,

though we might not wish it so . . .

We?

how foolish . . .

Me.

I . . . I do not even know you anymore.

I still sometimes question if we were ever friends before.

Have you?

Have you ever felt abandoned?

Have you ever felt betrayed?

Surely, you have at least felt stupid?

Or even a little ashamed?

Now, that’s foolishness! I think to myself,

To convince yourself you are helpless,

to nurse the idea you have been victimised . . .

To believe even an ounce of that nonsense!

You may have been dealt a poor hand,

but did you not have a hand to play?

Did you do the best you could?

Be it winning or losing,

is it not all part of the game?

It is easier to hate you, I suppose,

than to unpack an unshuffled past,

or to let any painful lack of closure

be folded over, at last.