Perjury
For the longest time, I was clean, but my records have been re-written and change would never suffice to bring back what it was. Who was to blame? Was it you, my love, or the darling from the past?
Who was to blame? I could never recall the name that had started it all.
Was it Alyssa? Senillo? Kallista? Perhaps, it went even as far back as Danielle?
No.
No. I can’t act like I don’t know who to blame all for the sake of myself trying to defend your injustice but my love, you’re as guilty and to blame — I know.
I KNOW WHO.
Her name echoes in my head in times like these. The bare witnesses of my sin being only you and I. I give my testimonies, over and over again. You’ll give yours, over and over again.
But who is the guilty? Who is the victim?
Are you the accused? Am I the accuser?
Will I walk away freely with hands tainted in red while your wrists feel cold held together by sweet metal I wished were in my bedframes? Have I been charged to the point I villainize those just as the same just for sake of perjury? I know.
I KNOW.
The judge and jury look down upon me as the defendant with no artifacts or evidence, yet I stand here in the name of “innocence” — no.
No.
No?
I don’t know.
I DON’T KNOW — I KNOW.
I confess. I plead guilty. But who do I confess to? The judge and jury look down upon me, but I hold my head high and find myself alone in the stand as I re-enact for the thousandth time my felony. Was it you, my love, or the darling from the past? I know. I know it’s me to blame, over and over again. The guilty. The victim. The accused. The accuser. As I give my testimonies over and over again, I scream them louder each time to drown out the echoes of her name.
A forgery.
A fraud.
I re-write them once more.
