Sunday, May 15, 2016
The knife I held at my own throat was supposed to say that I meant business.
There is no telling why I thought smiles and sweet words were your way of conveying sincerity.
You were a reoccurring dream that briefly emerged as reality.
I search through my memory for a turning point that still escapes me.
When was the moment that "yes" became "no"?
Why was I the one to get blindsided?
It's unnerving that your false nobility continues to keep all enraptured.
You, with your big eyes and dimpled chin and long stares and gentle voice.
Even though I was mesmerized, I knew, I wouldn't be able to save either of us from you.
I boldly said it to your face, hoping to be convinced otherwise.
And although you tried, I could see the end at the beginning.
I had already told myself many a tall-tale on your behalf.
For your part, as with all works of fiction, a story's conclusion is the divine providence of the writer.
You wrote a bad ending for me.
Pray that I didn't write a worse one for you.