You looked at her with such tasteless distain. A quick vengeance. Slow to forgive. You were disgusted. At her. Her confession was just but a truth you were not ready to face. Willing to remain oblivious to. You wore the unforgiving face of God on judgement day to the self professed Christians who had never actually repented. The false prophets who had abused His name, His glory for far too long. You gazed at her as though she stood far off. Wishing that she stood far off. Where she couldn’t feel your wrath. Where she couldn’t spell the disappointment written on your puzzled face. The life had been sucked out of you as though you had wasted a life waiting for a lover who had eloped your best friend, your best friend? Your only friend. In secret. Without you. Without your permission, your go ahead, your blessing. Your knowledge. Your allegiance.
Was it inevitable? Was it avoidable? Was it even condemnable? I mean, you took ,no snatched her innocence away at her consent. Something no amount of sorrys would reverse. You escorted her into a world of sexual escapades teaching her body to move in unison to the rhythm of yours as you took away her prudence. You let yourself in. Banged hard enough and through one thrust dawned into a world of a broken hearted girl who didn’t understand why you liked her, hell she didn’t understand why she liked her. Her pain. Her past. Her mistakes. Her love. Her wounds. The wound you took pleasure, enjoyed to watch bleed over and over again. You couldn’t, didn’t want to think about how somebody else would gain access to the wound. Attempt to open her up. To inflict a bit of pain. Expose her. Try and heal her wound. You were disappointed to know that there was still hope for a girl you had put a hand in breaking into pieces. Into really tiny pieces. Pieces so small you could barely recognize her now. You are afraid of her aren’t you? You are afraid to ask her why. Why she switched roles? Gave rather than take the pain she only recognized synonymously with your identity. Afraid that if she knew how much power she had on you.
You would turn and be the victim. Afraid to ask her why because then she would ask you why what? But you would go on to lie to her with a straight face. You wanted to reply with a dude answer. A one word answer. To generalize your answer. To speak like a man she never, no did not know you to be. To speak of yourself in the third person and assume a role you were too weak to uphold. You were scared of her innocence. Of how God punished the offenders who were meant to be the protectors. Who wore sheep clothing to hide the bloody fangs that represented their primary intention. Their ruthless intention. Your ruthless intention. You were afraid that the her that you had born would die with all her hopes for a future with you. That the her you nurtured had since outgrown the comfort of the oblivion you sat her in. That the her that was secret to you, the her that was sacred to you, the her that made faces below you writhing in a state of pain and pleasure bonded to the asunder. That her had forgotten to cherish you. She had stopped to fearfully stick with you alone. She had gained the courage to weigh her options. She had realized her self worth. And it scared you.
The fear is yeasted and you yield to it with each realization that she has found a way to love you and not be with you. To love you and leave you. To break free. To understand that no attachment is too strong. She knows you now. Knows you well enough. That you would put her on the limelight and then go ahead and steal her show. That she deserves better. She deserves double or nothing. A rest from the toiling, a rest from maintaining a dead relationship, hospicing a hopeless presence that refused to sprout into a glorious something. Fight a lost battle. After giving you all that she had, realised that she had more than less left for her to ride into herself. Run away and smash into herself. Break free and embrace herself. Begin to love herself…