If you whisper your confessions, much will be misinterpreted. The desire to cause injury to anyone specific, or the world in general, isn’t with me anymore. I understand I was owed nothing, not even by those that were careless with me. I fashion apologies on anyone’s behalf, and I swallow, I digest. That is all one can do, should do. Stop all conversation with any who twist their words. Run toward a multi-colored puddle of rainwater and oil. Call it a rainbow. Move on with your life.
Oh, loneliness, how your wails crash against my sternum. You are a screaming infant with no mother. I will not claim you. I will not raise you. I neglect your needs, and still you exist.
I am still aggrieved by the cruelty of sister’s betrayal. I want it so much not to matter. A sexual act doesn’t have to carry any importance. It is the satiation of desire. The need to feel adored, if but for a night. Nothing more, I say and try to believe. Except, I was never capable of separating the body from the mind, and certainly not from the ailing spirit. The restless make so many mistakes, and never once think to correct them.