Bremarie Gulfan's speaker looks back over a relationship full of excuses, lies and small betrayals, and answers each one with the same line: "I was blind." The repetition makes the poem feel like a list of evidence, every missed pickup, unanswered call and false promise added to the pile. What stands out is that the speaker blames herself, or at least her own blindness, rather than only the other person. She was told it was her fault, and she half believed it.
The ending turns the pattern around. "I was blind" becomes "I'm blind now," as she watches the person she loved walk down the aisle, apparently toward someone else. The pain is no longer about being fooled but about still caring. The last line, "I just loved you so," is simple and unguarded. The mood is hurt and weary, with grief and a trace of self-reproach, and the plain, almost conversational language makes it feel like a confession rather than a performance.