The perjury flows from your tongue like a second language, only eclipsed by the narrowness of your thoughts; one-sided arguments that result in trepidation, the others you hoped to rally become the throng of disenchantment. Make your mark on the world by painting your own future, not by staining my canvas with conjecture and false hope. They only become the vehicle in which to slip away from reality, only to have the truth fill your lungs during a final gasp meant to save face. Don't tell me things I want to hear, they weaken the shell I've layered to prevent feelings of self-belief and break down the walls I've constructed to keep people like you out.
Everyone has a purpose; I suppose you've served yours by touching my life with the delicateness of a shotgun blast. If I could do it all again, I would do it with someone else; someone who has a grasp of what real life outside of protective custody really means. I know you want to nullify what happened, pretend it wasn't real, make yourself the victim, etc. But I stood alone to face the consequences, given all I had, and shown you how to be forgiven for something that was undeserving of forgiveness. Yet you stare blankly at me as though you've no concept of what you've done, how you've changed, and what you've become. Your concerted efforts to come out clean in all of this mess will undoubtedly be short-lived; once you've cleansed yourself in the waters of vindication you will test temptation again, only to realize you can never wash off the stain of this.
Your past defines your future and your resolve to change it; although I wish I could say you'll end up alone, I know you will always have someone to fall back on. It's who you are.
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