It would have been the day you died,
you told me through quiet, cold, empty eyes.
When I looked in them for your soul
and the truth therein,
all I saw was the black silhouette of my outline against white walls,
a gaping human form in the midst of what had been alive.
How do I describe the cold that gripped my heart when,
as though my shadowed form had killed your soul already,
I watched it mirror my movements,
attaching itself to me,
its loathsome form glaring at me and when I raised my arm to comfort,
it raised a demon finger to my true form
and, mirthless, laughed to cast upon me my cloak of hypocrisy and evil.
Words spilled from your mouth like blood,
words of forgiveness and comfort to me, me!
But I knew the truth of the yellow-eyed monster in your eyes,
that the fault was mine,
the fault was mine.
When I sought to draw tears to the eyes that so relentlessly condemned me,
they contracted but remained dry,
all emotionless and steel—dry as if by the sun that wrinkles chilies in New Mexico,
the sun that gives me warmth in my heart.
I walked away feeling hollow and humbled,
with a sense that perhaps you did die Tuesday last,
and I, the rock and criminal, both pressed blade to skin and condemned you for your weakness.
-Kaitlyn Medina [4/28/08]