I did not create your wounds, nor with my snake oil cure them.
My ambitions toward healing have led to many failures, and you are the latest glowing portrait of that. It is not my path. To pretend to that capacity is to wreak havoc on others and invite madness upon myself. No intent, no purpose, no permission nor high ideal sways that inevitability. Intent has no meaning: when you take it upon yourself to carry the wounded, you emerge with blood on your hands.
I forgive you your lies, your manipulation, your dependence. I forgive you for the traps you laid, for the damage your limitations caused me, intentional or not. I forgive you for derailing at every turn my attempts to change your fate.
I ask in return for your forgiveness: for my arrogance, my selfishness, my withholding. For my ambition, my dedication to my fantasies, my willful blindness. My lies. For dragging you with me at all, I am sorry, for both of us.