A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Isn’t it funny, the way we cycle through various lies?
Full blinkers.
       He’s perfect. 
Rose-tinted lenses.
       Well, no, he’s human, so obviously he’s not perfect,
       but he’s perfect for me, 
       everything I ever wanted,
       everything I need.
Naivete. 
       That particular thing? Well, it would be a red flag
       in someone else
       but not him.
Wishful thinking.
       That other thing? Oh no:
       you have completely misinterpreted it.
       There must be a more innocent explanation.
Self-blame.
       This thing? - here I blush - 
       This is clearly my fault.
Blind hope, a desperate fragile thing,
like an injured bird in her cage.
       This? Well, yes, this is less than ideal,
       but he doesn’t even know
       and as soon as I tell him, he will realise. 
I can fix him 
       (no really, I can)
Well, he can fix himself, 
and he will as soon as he sees the cracks. 
You’d be proud of me: I told him. 
I spelled it out really clearly, wrote it down,
exactly how he hurts me.
So now he knows.
    What?
       Oh.
            Yes. 
Yes, he is still hurting me.


Written for Day 11 of Kristina Mahr's TTPD Challenge