Mistakes were made.

A filler post. Right now I have other things on my mind, but no time to actually make these thoughts coherent.

I wanted a sestina-esque repetition without the work, thus the form of this.

You find yourself in a field at midnight.
You say cruel things because you can, because you are you.
I am me. I grow quiet. You grow nervous.
I am quiet.

You do not understand what you said in a field at midnight.
Its vitriol eats me alive. I am not alive.
I have been destroyed by what you said because you could, so
I grow quiet.
You are nervous because you were cruel, and now
You try to fix the damage caused by what you said, but too late:
It is midnight.

(Or.

Or did I say cruel things without saying them,
And forget before I remembered?
I grow quiet because I am not sure anymore,
Because I am me. You are you.
There is a field at midnight, scratching at our souls.
I am quiet.)

Time passes.
We grow tired.
We find ourselves.

Is it enough, who I tried to be in a field at midnight—
Is it enough, these stars, these thoughts, this pale lamplight
Not bright enough to force the right words out of my mouth?
I am me. I find myself.

We are in this field at midnight, but we are even now,
Ever more becoming me and you, you and me,
Me and you and you and me in a field—
I grow quiet. You grow nervous.
It is midnight.

Even now.
Even now, you do not know me.