Don't say you didn't have a say in the matter. Don't say this wasn't your choice. You could've done something about it, could've prevented it, could've remedied it after the damage was done. You chose not to. You chose to watch as what you wanted festered before your very eyes. You chose to let it kill with cancer; slow, painful, almost impossible to heal. Don't say it was circumstance. Don't say you thought I would have understood. I did. You made it perfectly clear. You understand, don't you? You know me. Know my ways. Familiar with my patterns. If I had to understand you, then you had to understand me back. That's how it works, isn't it? Yes.
Don't say that the telephone works both ways. I'm aware. I called you, remember? Repeatedly. I called you until my ear was warm from all the unanswered calls. I called you until my ear was numb from all the waiting I had to do. I called you until my ears bled from all the words you said, all the promises you never kept. I called you until I realized that it wasn't even about who was calling, it was about who wasn't answering. So don't say the telephone works both ways.
Don't say that I was distant, cold, aloof, emotionless, hard, numb, heartless. You know me better than that. I come off that way, but you know I care. It's become such a good excuse for you, huh? It's become the justification to every wrongdoing you've done. It's so easy to blame the one who isn't as warm, inviting, soft to the touch. It's easy to blame the wounds on the prickly one -- because that's what thorns are known to do, right? We tear at the skin, bleed you dry, and then leave forth a scab. A scar. Something to remind you that we caused pain. A lingering sense of danger. However, I want you to think back, and do so properly, and try to remember if any argument started because of me. It was always on you. You, you, you. Perfect, warm, inviting, you. How deceitful you are. You almost had me fooled. Luckily, I was smart away to stop when I did.
Don't say that I never tried and you only got tired. My trying was your saving grace and I couldn't pull you out of the exhaustion.
But if you can only move forward by putting the blame on me, because I've moved on or whatever insipid reason, then by all means, do so. Move forward.
You're a victim of your own design, your own making.