tattle

i've been ruminating on the same types of things these last nights, waiting for the other shoe to drop -- waiting for a lot of things, actually. i don't feel forgiven. i don't know if i will ever stop being sorry.

i think you know that story of the girl who encouraged her friend to kill himself. saying isn't this what you wanted? if you don't do it now, you'll never know. i don't know what i think of her. compassion comes in ugly colors, too, and nothing i do will ever taste like the respect you crave for the tip of your tongue.

if i told you i was sorry, i wanted to save you by myself, but i didn't know how.
if i told you i should have done it sooner.
if i told you i had to do it. but it was none of my business? she keeps telling me it was the right thing to do.

i keep thinking about justice. a year ago, he taught me about justice then delivered it. i didn't know what to make of that. i guess i never believed him when he said he would betray a friend to protect their lover. and if they were the same?

what if you were protecting the one you betrayed? does that make it right, does that make it justified? or anything? or what, if nothing else?

this is our own goddamn cultural violence. our own shortcomings noosed. so how can this be wrong?

i combed my fingers through your hair. it felt like the last days, something monumental. i wanted it to be worth the ultimatum. she kept telling me how you might leave,

"but at least i was doing the right thing."

if you hate me, i promise to cherish that hate. i think it will eat me, but you've done it before.