confession

When you come back -the real you-
A hope inside me comes back, it should be dead by now though.
The hope based not on you but rather in the idea of you.

The idea of you never was, it is no one's business but mine.
The idea of you it is in a certain way my own shadow taking over the shade of your body and painting there things that you are not as strong as the little things that you are that I know.

The idea of you is what strangles me, not you, never you.
You cannot save me, why should you? There is no crime of yours to account for.

This madness, the sadness that takes over and breaks me little by little...
It is of my own doing...
It's always been.

It is also a fairly poetic punishment for me.
The kind of hell greeks wrote about.