Et Tu’ Brute?

I don’t have anymore love to give. I don’t have anymore forgive to give. It was stripped from me in my early years so I have defenses that thrive within me. I got armor to show for it. I took it down for you though. Every Wednesday I met with my emotional and psychological consultant to tear down my wall brick by brick. I went to church so I can get a taste of the blood shed for me in hopes to heal from the blood of my past that was hemorrhaging in me.

I heard you, you didn’t ask to be here, so the ownness is on me. I Guess if the world didn’t get constipated by my melanated, your hormonal learning curve wouldn’t be so hurtful and complicated.

I’m tired of fighting. I have nothing left. It’s not your fault, but when my seed shares humanness that resembles the hate they gave – my home feels invaded, and my hopes of collaborative sweetness disintegrated when the world got a hold of you.

It’s not judgment though, it’s just dejavú. I just wish it wasn’t you.

My love for you I will have until I’m six feet under, but do I let the arrows fly and die knowing what life feels like for you? Or do I continue to cry cause I feel guilty that I contemplate emotionally leaving you. You’re in good hands with the man God helped me choose for you. This is a delightful thought – so maybe it’s okay to release you…

I cannot take one more battle from my ally turned scorned. Torn out of me, so I kept believing in solidarity, agape respectability. I kept buying you roses and you kept letting them die in front of me.

My naïveté never ceases to amaze me…