— no return to duality.
She is not blind to the way you stir when she passes by.
The leaning, the yearning, the anger, the fall.
The continuous trying, the crying. The mouthful begging, the praying.
One day you detest, the next you worship.
Oh, how she filled you with euphoria, yes, the sickening high of it all—being engulfed in her awe is joy, her poison-laced promises your air.
But alas!
You are a martyr in the making! A devotee of a memory!
For if not for the good, imagine how terrifyingly bland the hatred must taste. Imagine how blunt the shard must bite, how pale the burn must seem.
Attached to the hips of that woman, you scream mercy at her feigned indifference, "Who are you to kill a man? Who are you?!"
The words do not land the way you want them to. She flinches as if dragged through thorns.
God did not answer you either.
She did.
"I am the one holding the sword; who else but me should decide?"
