No. You're not really a mistake.
You just learnt all the bad ways to pick a pocket.
You're the very epitome of failure.
If it wasn't for the 8 years you spent in the juvenile facility, maybe you would have turned out to be a proper child.
No. Pretty is not for you.
He sat and wove wickedness into your veins.
You are hopeless.
I'm the misfortune waiting to happen to you. I'm the bandit you shouldn't meet on your way home.
I'm the child you pray you don't have.
I'm the Cain that slew his Abel.
Hope, is the song for happy people. I'm content in the days I escape the stripes of my foolishness. You don't come here preaching forgiveness. Love is for those who live in glass houses. Transparency and vulnerabilities. No, not when the latter is all there is to you.
Hope. Yes, hope is for impossible things. Things once considered impossible. No. Escaping might not be for everyone. Some of us are either helplessly foolish or loved. We tasted liberty. And we have chosen to die, bleed life into graves, and give love.
Who broke you? I see you're perfectly broken in all the right places. I bet you can teach the jailer how to show empathy, and still comfortably break his jaw. You're broken in unusual places, who can understand this pain?
Will you pray with me? Or you're still thinking you're hopeless?
Beautifully penned. Hope is a thread, sometimes too tiny to trust. What if that's all you've got?
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteI have read this twice. I should've read it once. The second reading left more queries than the first. By the second, there are at least 4 personae having this conversation. Who would save me from this spiral? ... whoever stops me from subsequent reads - myself.
ReplyDelete