It's my fault.
That my waistline remains at thirty-two inches;
In bare-feet I will only ever reach your chin,
That i have hard working hands and artists eyes.
The curves of an hourglass,
And the ruined joints of a former runner.
Teamed with the bespectacled face of a librarian
Struggling lungs and lover's heart-
And crazy-cat-lady potential-
Refusing to colour my hair russet
Choosing to collect more body art.
More studs, more rings, more corsets,
A mix and match of grunge and rock;
Nirvana sang 'All Apologies'
Buckcherry sang 'Sorry'
And I lament just a little,
I'm still who I was when you fell for me-
But I'm finding myself taking the blame for that.
It's my fault
That you're now so different.