What idiocy she possesses,
she slaps her arm, her face,
she is her own abuser,
let her disallow her hand’s ability to falter.
For she deserves to be punished,
before and after the fact,
she knows what she has done is wrong,
but strangely she displays the minimal amount of regret.
She understands she must reveal more of her guilt
because she’s betrayed the trust of another,
but she is young, defensive, and full of bravado,
and she sits, falsely unaffected,
while she imagines he weeps tears of sorrow.
She couldn’t help what occurred,
it simply happened, it was truthfully that way,
sticks and stones,
broken bones,
she slaps herself awake.
She is trying to make herself feel,
she is attempting to make his pain more real,
so she registers it within her skin,
and within the numb heart in her chest
that’s erratically beating away still.
She felt so much for this man,
and now, here she is,
disconnected,
as though looking through an hourglass
at trapped moments in time
which mattered most,
which have presently fallen by.
Their time together has expired,
and it’s all because of her,
his broken soul,
previously affected,
completely lost faith in her.
And she could apologise over and over,
and it wouldn’t make a single difference,
sometimes words seem cheap.
She wouldn’t want to watch him fall further into a heap.
The truth is, she felt lost within their dying love,
perhaps the event was a subconscious means of reaching out,
above and beyond,
a moment to destroy what was lost, no longer found.
They used to be magic,
or at least, she felt once they were fire,
but their conjoining depressions brought them deep sorrow,
perpetuating them further under.
On one night, this younger version of herself
innocently sought different company,
two friendships which could brighten her,
make her soul feel less weary,
send sparkles shivering throughout her mind and body,
because being around her friend and this other person,
his platonic company,
made her feel so amazing.
Yet, she was testing dangerous waters,
growing heavily inebriated,
she trod into the darkness of the night,
and then she, as her young, idiotic self,
ruined everything that she and her saddened other
had created over the course of many weeks of whispered nights.
She sits and reflects, recalls the
despairing, hopeless expression upon his face
when she revealed to him what happened,
how she was so sorry; of its occurrence she did not mean it.
He slowly melted away into obscurity then,
into the wall, in the patchy white paint,
because, his pasty pallor spoke volumes,
he was ill at hearing this,
at knowing he would now have to be alone,
in this world he had grown to hate.
She felt his pain.
she felt his sorrow.
she wished it upon him not a second longer,
to not last even till tomorrow,
he didn’t deserve this,
an amazing young man,
why did she do this,
so selfish,
she just wanted an escape,
momentarily,
no, it was never all planned.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro from Pexels
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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