I feel like a murderer, only that what I’ve murdered was not a person but a thing, a very important thing. In the wake of my crime I shivered and realized what I’ve done, what I’ve lost. But for a murderer to mourn would be wrong. So what I did was hide the traces of my actions, wrap the body with every possibility of reconciliation while I think about surviving with my secrets, and dig a pit under the starry skies where I can lay my fragile heart to rest, once they caught me and found me guilty.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, convict me. Save yourself from due process and pronounce me guilty. Sentence me to an eternity of death and show me no mercy. Punish me, with every possible punishment in the world, for I was wrong.
Once upon a time, under the dreamy blanket of a cold December evening exactly two years ago, I had him. I had him like a puppet on a string. I had him like I would have had anything that I wanted. And he had me — but only for that December evening.
But now I stop and stare at myself, thinking why people fall out of love. What is love in the first place? Because when I look for the signs, from puppy loves to my parent’s marriage, from first dates to fall-outs, I end up thinking how miserable people are in their choices, how I tell myself everyday never to make the same mistakes and how I’m wrong about everything that I have ever believed in. For all I know I never believed that such horrid things could ever happen to me, because I thought I was smart and witty and tough and hard as a piece of granite to all the boys who came up and said they love me
But I don’t know.
All I know is that I was happy with him, and I woke up one day and was not happy anymore. But when was that? When did I wake up and realize that this was not what I wanted? When did it begin to hurt like hell? When did I learn to lie, casually, about wishing and wanting for the same things?
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, chain me. In a matter of minutes I will burst in rage and spew words at him again. Painful, loathing. But what are words but letters strung togther to form a comprehensive whole under this dry repulsive tongue of mine that wants neither to taunt nor to sneer. I could scream at the top of my lungs, for all of my life, that I hate him, that I curse him, that I loathe him but it wouldn’t make any difference because deep down there is still a space reserved for him and for no one else.
Ladies and gentlemen, judgers and jokers alike, the whole world, the jury, I love him. The only thing I hate is my self.