My Eyes

​Sometimes the writing is on the wall, we choose not to see it. sometimes there’s that one great friend that holds your hand through your own self inflicted blindness. And when you can finally see the writing on the wall, they don’t say I told you so, they say I’m still here for you. And they listen to you cry, even though it hurts them too, because they walked it with you. They hurt for you long before you knew you would hurt. And when the mud and the tears and the hurt are removed from your eyes, you can see clearly, that the one who truly loved you, was the one who was your eyes when you chose not to see.

Now, I see.

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