I accuse him. In my attempt to prove he has lied, yet again, it becomes evident that my accusation is unfounded.
My accusation is based on facts. The fact that he is a compulsive liar. The fact that I cannot believe a word that comes out of his mouth- without researching it first. The fact that our friendship has been irreparably maimed by a continuous stream of untruths. The fact that I am angry. The fact that I feel disrespected, betrayed.
I apologize for my erroneous accusation, however, I cannot find it in my heart, to extend the olive branch.
Nothing so simple as the lily’s promise of resurrection, can bring forgiveness, when the heart has been fermented by lies.
I have long overcome the pangs of loneliness. I luxuriate in time spent alone. It is my sanctuary. My fortress. I rush towards it, as once I ran into the arms of a lover. It holds me close, drinks me in, makes me whole- in a way I only ever dreamed- a lover could.
Alone, in my room All around me, the air sleeps. In silence, I soar.
She liked to pretend she had taken the road less traveled. She told herself she was in every way, unique. She envisioned herself as having risen above the masses. But in truth, her heart was hard, her ardors weak.
She found herself alone in her mid thirties. By her mid forties she’d become romantically involved, with death. In her fifties, she found herself rightfully imprisoned. A time out, in which she used, to catch her breath.
Oh, she still walks to the beat, of her own drummer. She still sees things, just a little bit askew. But today she’s a little older, and a whole lot wiser. And truth be told, she’s not a whole lot different- than you…
Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.” and I misconstrued it.. I imbued it with all the pent up passions of a woman lost, alone far from a home she never had. Unfulfilled, unloved. Unable to make a life for herself, to ever be anything more than she was when she defined herself by her love for you..
Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.” and what I twisted it round to, was that I should remember you as someone you never were… That I should chop you up in little pieces, savoring the pretty ones carrying them around in my pocket fingering them when I was feeling old, or lonely, or used up. That I should ingest them in small portions until dream sodden memories, became my Eucharist. The body and the blood of the life, I sucked out of you…
Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.” But it was I that chose to make true…..