Self-Sabotage Serenade

Welcome, dear audience, take your seat,

And watch the spectacle of my defeat.

I craft disasters with careful art,

A saboteur of my own heart.

I ask, I answer, I build, I break,

I bake my worries into every mistake.

The silence? A void I’m desperate to fill—

With fears that fester and bend to my will.

“It’s preparation,” I say, “for what’s to come!”

But truth be told, I’m the loaded gun.

I shoot first, then ask why you’ve bled,

Mocking myself while I paint things red.

I whisper the worst, then call it a plan,

A genius move from a foolish hand.

I raise the stakes, I set the tone,

A masterclass in standing alone.

Too much, too often, I stoke the fire,

A self-made blaze of my own desire.

I claim it’s poetry, a work of art,

But it’s just me tearing myself apart.

“It’s unhealthy,” you said, with patience rare,

But I twisted your words; oh, how unfair!

For who needs an enemy when I’m around?

I’ll dig the trenches, I’ll salt the ground.

If sabotage were a skill to hone,

I’d be a legend, renowned and known.

But I’m left instead with ruins and ash,

And a heart too bruised for love to last.