The Guilty

Pronounced guilty with only you as judge and jury. All hope for redemption with a remark you bury. You become my better and I the subordinate. Chicago has seen bitter weather, but this, the air ‘tween us now, is the coldest winter yet.

You smile like the interloper into the garden, While I play the desperate, death row inmate begging for a pardon. For wrong I have not done, I show remorse. When I show remorse, you take chance to give me nonchalant, sarcastic discourse.

So quick now are you to remind me of how you loved me when no one else would, and as remember we were both living alone. To reach your delusions of grandeur and emaciate your insecurities, you wish to use me as your stepping stone. You tear me down in front of your friends, my friends, and our families respectively, as if you were the entity that built me. But no matter the number of innocent verdicts I might receive, for whatever you accuse me of, I will always be the one guilty.

 - by the Greatest Poet Alive