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Don't pride yourself on my tears,
they're not for you.
It's not your presence I mourn
but the loss of things that could have been.
Should have been.
Would have been.
If not for your folly.

You tell me it's not about her
and yet,
It is her you run to.

You’re a caged bird,
trapped by the responsibilities you pursued.
I am the anchor weighing you down
when you long to fly free.

But I am what you made me.
Eager to please, I bit my tongue
and let you play.
While I drowned holding up the weight of the family
you so desperately wanted.

Now you complain:
There's no fun.
No affection.
No connection.
Anymore.
But was there ever?
You're not sure.
And so you pick
and pick
at me.
Finger pointing, accusing,
tearing me down
to ashes.
All the while ignoring your part in this farcical marriage.

She fills your world
(“Just a friend.”)
and we are to be content with the crumbs.

An argument signals the end
and, like that,
you are gone.
Run away again.
Leaving your responsibilities
behind.
Leaving it all to me.
Again.
Running
to her.

While I'm very sorry for the reason this poem was written, it's written very well. Articulately/reflectively.

Unfortunately, (by my own observation) pain often does tend to be the best of muses though. Ironic as that may be.

Nice work.

Thank you. The writing definitely helps!