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Somedays I give him the benefit of doubt
That the hurt was caused by accident,
On other instances, I waiver him
For being exhausted and burnt out.
On Sundays I become understanding
To allow him to rest.
On Mondays I know
Work can be hard.
On Tuesdays
It’s often his bad headache.
On Wednesdays
A toll from the long drive to work.
On Thursdays
He seems to be withering and braving life storms.
On Fridays
He had a small accident of fate.
On Saturdays
I begin to await in hope.
On Sundays
I see myself being let down …yet again.
The endless weeks of wanting, waiting and hoping
Have made me lesser and unhappy.
I’m beginning to want to fuck the
Conditionings of guilt and sacrifice
He coded in my psyche.
Blame is not the word,
It is a long disappointment
Of not being heard, loved or held.
He told me
Love is sacrifice and understanding.
I’m only beginning to wonder
If staying hurt always …is love.
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