Week Thirteen: Her beauty was in her love for me

A Song of Self-Pity for the Bitches and Bastards

You felt that glowy warm feeling of someone else’s sun on your skin and thought, well, maybe that glowy warm feeling had bloomed inside of you.

Otherwise you wouldn’t have, right?

You didn’t mean any malice. You were not taking advantage. You even believed—like, truly believed—that you could perhaps reason yourself into love for someone who is so nice to you.

She said she loved you. Or he did. And, knowing this, you made love to them. At the very least, affections are owed.

And if you can’t muster that, what, then, does that say about you?  What kind of fucked-up sociopath are you that you can’t find somewhere in your withered heart even a seed of, at least, empathy?

This is about how you didn’t want to hurt anyone.

This is about how you did anyway.