sinding,

"Why did I leave you?" I would that I was someone who wished things were different between us. I wish I could want to have grown up and not known the truth (nightwalker, harlot, whore); that we had, instead, grown up screaming and yelling to singing and laughing and that it had stayed that way -- that we might have found some sort of peace in time, and that our peace would have bloomed into a future where we could have made plans to grow old. I wish that I was the kind of person who could want things to have been different, or that I could learn to accept it was in her nature to destroy beautiful things without a second or fifteenth glance; my life -- our life -- would have turned out so differently, more lovely, perhaps. All of the wandering I have done in order to purposefully lose myself, maybe I would not have had to do any of it if I could have just forgotten the way she fell into his arms, or if I could teach myself to excuse her for having been a child seduced by a man. "Ali," however, as I can only look at her now with hate and with love, I cannot make myself forget or forgive. That was not a lesson I had been taught -- forgiveness; my mother died too young to even understand what it meant herself, for she died of heart-rage and, as I too fester before her very naked stained-glass eyes, I know that it is genetic. My heart-rage kills me now, right where I stand: it hurts to look at her, to breathe her, feel her. It kills me to know that where I exist she will be long to linger. It kills me because, as much as I loathe her very kissable mouth and those eyes that pierce me to my heartcore, I know that I cannot hurt her in the way that she has hurt me. Her bite was to the bone; it was to my marrow. "You let him do it." And mine? "You let him." It came soft and gently, like the steel smile of a knife as the curve is drawn down your throat; I wanted to hurl my hate at her in so many words, and I wanted to make her writhe, to feel the same anguish that I held within me every twenty-four hours of the day -- I wanted to. But in the wake of the face that could launch a thousand ships, and in the memory of how she used to laugh a full, wide-mouthed laugh, I can only sing to her a lullaby of the destruction. I can only hate her in pianissimo, and slowly, so slowly, turn on my heel, and I leave.

I was not taught how to forgive.

ooc, feel free to reply - or to not reply. c: next thread is when she's preggo though, yes?