Quietly, graciously, fairy like they dance. They dance the dance of subtle blame. They trip around in a glory of guilt. Poor little dancers, mere victims of other's behaviour. For you do not know how to love them. How you are is what makes them hurt. Of the wrong that lives in your being. Of your choices that batter them down. They'll tell you how you should be. What you need to come to be better. Never meaning but to heal you. To mend your broken ways. And if what they say does hurt you. If what they do leads you astray. Then that is your mere misconception. An illness that you portray. But your relentless misunderstanding will be a burden they'll sacrifice to carry. The bullet they're ready to take. For all they are is innocent dancers. Forever victims of your ways. And all they did, they did for you. All they said, they said for you. Quietly, graciously, fairy like they dance. The innocent dance of such subtle blame.
(When everything is everybody else's fault, whose fault is it then really?)
Love,
Carolina
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