I want to tell you that your words still cut deep into the recesses of my cold, black heart. But like an empty echo, it just fades into nothingness. The champagne taste of your mediocrity and hypocrisy.
I want to resuscitate you as you bleed from the truth. But every time I summon that modicum of benevolence, I remember the multiple crosses that you bestowed upon these weathered shoulders.
I want to tell you I wince as you feel each painful breath. But short of being the insensitive waif that you are, I am too numbed by my sub-zero disposition. The absence of the sun and the ever so bleak panorama.
If being mature means I have to be moulded by the sad cookie cutter that spawned you, then I’d rather stagnate in my self-imposed regression.
Forgiveness is something I don’t pluck from the thin air that slowly dried me after I was stupefied by your betraying rains.
I am too blessed to be the eggshells that you walk upon. I am not buying your innocence...your know-it-all grin... your nonchalance.... more so your self-serving machinations. The irony is that I am too mature to be a victim of all that. I have mastered your game. I have learned to rise above the hand I was dealt with.
My faith in you has died a thousand deaths. I refuse to dance the same tantrum to your secret god.
In this rebel darkness, I discovered who you are. AND WHAT I CAN BE.
****
I can think of a million ways
You’ve proved you are not the one
To live inside your shades of grey
And never mind the sunshine that I find