Blind

You just left to your favourite cool-down spot by the river.

I'm sitting on the vanity, scrutinising the scars on my skin - old, new, and raw. I barely remember the colour of my skin anymore. It's like a child's painting now, with blacks, greens, and purples everywhere.

I always pray that your stress will end, that you will be happier, because I don't know how much longer I can survive this.

But I'm starting to think that I'm the reason for your stress.

I am aren't I?

Because it seems it doesn't matter what I do or don't. It doesn't matter if I've even crossed your path, you always seemed stressed as soon as you reached home.

And then you start painting my skin again.

Maybe it's time to remove your cause of stress.

Let this be the last thing I do for you.

I love you. Lord knows how much I love you but I need to start thinking about me.

I always thought we were meant for each other so I stayed and prayed and waited.

But maybe I'm blind.