it's not you, it's me (and also very much you)

there's something to be said
for being blind to the faults of others,
like the way you chewed your nails
until they bled
or the way you liked to draw expletives on my hand
when i was passed out
or the way you made me believe
in heaven.

it is better to forget
your distrust of others
and your thirst for other women
and the way you bruised my wrist
when i tried to leave before
i finally gave up
and laid down.

if i were a better person
your stench would have washed off
before it permeated my pale skin
in unrelenting inches and lover
you are the worst thing to happen
to me, yet

somedays
the scales
do not fall
from my eyes.