August 18

Chapter 2: The Guilt

It was like a joke how a sad, moody and obscure like me could ever say the word “love” to a lady I met for the first time. To many the word is just a word with four alphabets but to me, it’s a force I have battled with for ages. I felt like an enemy recommending an enemy to a stranger using nice words. Love has never been my stuff, I spat on it long ago when the very essence to my life was snatched away by a force many called love and I was told not to question it without being given any reason. August 18. A day I cursed love and vowed never to let it know no peace. Before you start throwing stones at me remember this “Love is a thief” I stole something from me and left me to die in agony of it.

I was at the tombstone wailing when a voice so unpleasantly pleasant spoke to me, offering me that which I needed in my war against love. I later got to know it was the voice of sadness, mother of hatred. Her words were so enticing; at least it got all I needed at the moment.

“Nature has some secrets treasures to unfold if we are willing to accept” a wise man once told me but today under the cursed tree with the breathe struggling moon above my head I questioned this quote and the wiseness of this man, what treasures could nature have other than the pearl it connived with love to steal from me, now it goes about boasting of having a treasure.. A hopeless thief.

Earl, the beloved of my soul, the light that shone in my darkest darkness, the eyes that watched my back and directed my steps, the moments we shared shall forever live same goes for the memory of how you passed away, how do I get to live with them both? Sadness and Happiness, how do I get to live each day knowing I caused your joy and death? How do I deal with the guilt of your death?

After your death I tried to blame God and profane his holy name even when I know he is innocent but I would be coward to do such for how can blame him for the death of my beloved when your blood is still dripping from my hands even after many trials of trying to wash it off. Had I not forgotten the knife on the bed that fateful afternoon, had I not turned you on, had I not made you wet with romance, you wouldn’t have gone to the bed with me foolishly unzipping your bra and dipping my finger deep into your honey pie, you wouldn’t have fallen on the knife that pierced you and caused you to bleed internally which resulted to your death. The guilt of knowing you died playing love with me will eat me bit by bit, piece by piece until nothing remains of this body and soul.

I ran to poetry hoping it would help lessen the burden of the guilt but all I get to write, the lines I get to bring and its rhymes has been sadness rooted firmly upon a guilt I can’t deny, the guilt of killing my most beloved Earl.