Performative Misery

You’re awfully sorry
but you’re always the same.
These Accidental Injuries
are killing us slowly,
and this is homicide from the inside—
it’s no wonder we’re Very Afraid
when we’re so terribly fond
of pinching each other’s hearts,
forcing pink to evolve to black.

But what a way to go, I observe,
ignoring your incessant accusations
of what I May or May Not have done,
paying more attention to my cigarette stub
than to the beautiful guilt written on your face
like a philosophical riddle scribbled on Kleenex.
I note to myself, Don’t you hope that I did?

I won’t bother trying to explain
what you’ll never understand—
that this is humanity’s Greatest Irony—
that we love it. You love it, I love it.

Nevermind that I’m not even lying,
nevermind that you probably believe me.
These are our Well Kept Secrets,
and in the name of love,
I swear I will never tell.
Although it kills me every time,
it is such a very well chosen death.
Oh, and I’m awfully sorry too.