It is only recently that I have chosen to consider you. To question, to curse. To measure the spill you allowed: the destruction, the vast soiling. Your error reduced another as no hundred men could have. You replaced man with monster. Now, forever, a perpetrator. An instrument of pain and shame. You gashed a wound as deep as your own. Who would ever forget? Must all sins be forgiven?
And while I am angry: the constancy of you was mirage? made of sun and sand? Sure, agreed, it was unfair to label you, to install you, as such. But I argue: consenting adults do much worse. And there are a thousand things worse than being constant. Do you not see? It is foundation and accepts only the incredibly strong.
They will toss you back you know. It is our only unspoken: too unsavory to speak to the they, unnecessary to verbalize amongst us. It is a priori. And so we all have our gods and spend a lifetime confirming or denying, scurrying about proving, insisting, shouting, and you must know that is nonsense. But we all have time that must be accounted for, spent. So carry on, keep doing what you're doing, and I will speak for you, say what you hide from: toss them back. Why wait? Are you too busy spending time to see this? Fortunately I am less busy, so I will say it again: toss them back. But first you must stab those heartless motherfuckers and gouge their buzzard eyes. Of course, child: you will then be truly alone. We all are.
What shall I tell you that you don't already know: that she arches her back to match my surgically altered posture when we kneel to pray, elbows interlocked? that she ignores my juicer and instead squeezes the oranges and grapefruits one by one, carefully removing each seed? that she will swallow any story I tell her, as long as I place her prominently within? that she prefers potatoes to rice, croissant to pita, spinach to all other greens? that the welt on her left buttock was not caused by her being "clumsy"?