I feel compelled to write
My sister told me to, but
I have words that need to come out, feelings that have only festered inside, without outlet.
How should one respond when attempting love, one is met largely with contempt?
And worse, how does one react when that contempt is not really for you, just spurred by you, and the ambition you demonstrate, pointing out constructed flaws?
How do you report a theft to the police, when the gifts were originally given? Only the contempt making acts of love into things stolen.
I feel a shallow shadow of revenge porn, the violence is not in the shame of nudity, or stranger’s appropriation and comment
The violence is the turn
The gift given in love, or adventure or shared excitement- made into something so ugly it cannot be contained
How did I wrong you? Why did you wrong me?
Why are you so unwilling to own even your own actions?
Because my father owned more than yours? Because my drive was insatiable, and not for you?
Your cowardice, in asking me to pay the price for your insecurity and betrayal, in every way possible is unfathomable.
You married my namesake, perhaps we were just off in the rhythm, you were meant to find her, I happened to be in the way
I don’t want to find another you however. I want to move beyond that. I want someone who doesn’t need to make me small to feel bigger.
I thought you were an honourable gentleman. I thought honour was a universal; accessible by all. You made me fear it was a bastion of elitism. Is that true? Or was the crime limited to you and your peculiar deficits?
I worked so hard not to see your faults, to believe the best. You made my optimism into foolishness; another day, another week, another month. And how many years were stolen?
The worst recrimination of course is for myself: why didn’t I see you for who and what you are? Why did I continue to invest? Why did I think that was all I deserved?
And you remain,
which is the worst crime of all