Crucify.
February 9, 2007The year of your crucifixion was the birth of my nightmares. The words shot from your mouth like unforgiving bullets from a gun. I had no chance; I didn’t want to hear them, but outside the black and white songbirds had taken flight and left behind them a fragile silence in which your four rounds of ammunition sliced through the heavy air and assaulted my ears. It was more an accusation than a statement, wasn’t it? My gaze stayed firmly on the greasy, tawdry linoleum of the kitchen floor in what was either cowardice or confession. Some people weren’t born to dance and you were one of them. Our shuffle became forced and disjointed and I desperately tried to untangle myself from you, but the more I tried the deeper our ties ran. You mirrored every move I made and made it your own, wrapping it up in your filth and storing it under your bed with your shame. There was no escape. Nothing was halved and nothing was whole. The crash was going to be spectacular but your gawp was focused on your self-admiration and vile ways. My gaze stayed firmly on the greasy, tawdry linoleum of the kitchen floor in what was definitely confession.
In the end, I was nothing and you were less. I’m glad I made you carry your own fucking cross.
