I am the accused.
Tried, convicted, hung without fair representation.
The facts of this case remain unclear.
The closing arguments remain clouded by jealousy.
The evidence remains to be seen.
A jury of my peers are nowhere to be found.
The judge presiding over my case is you.
Need I say more?
The ebb and flow of my memories are not kind to you.
They drift into consciousness like a reel of old black and white film.
There’s no stark contrast…just muddled grays interspersed with spots of darkness.
A loss of awareness occurs because time has erased some of my pain and some of my joy.
I can’t remember if your voice soothed or if your touch bruised.
I can’t remember if you loved me kindly, or loved me at all…
Your gaze once filled with adoration and love now sears me with scorn.
When you grab me, your fist is a very real lump at my throat.
I don’t know what to say.
You speak, but I cannot make out your words.
I am more concerned with the grimace your mouth has rearranged itself into.
And your lips actually tremble with barely contained anger.
I am not afraid of you, of your rage.
I am only afraid that I will still love you after you are done.
I used to love your company, now you make me miserable.
You reek of mediocrity and when I’m with you I still feel lonely.
You seem confused or bewildered which only makes me angry.
Can’t you see that I’m not the me I used to be?
I’m the me You made me.
And now you don’t like it…
You don’t touch me, hold me or console me.
But you were eager to mold me
Into Nae Unknown
That’s worse than you giving me your last name
Which I wouldn’t take even if it were wrapped up
In a Tiffany Blue box with a white bow on top.
Confessions of a Thinkaholic 