To the soul that lived in my body, I ask for your forgiveness.
Forgive me for obediently holding my wrists up to the jagged blades that kept slashing my veins. With my head bowed down I kept blinking helplessly at the blood leaking down to my knees. Unbeknownst to the courage you undoubtedly possessed even then, I let his cunning love seep into me and garrote you. How could I have known love from abuse when my mother often pled at my father’s knees, her trembling hands shielding her face, her deceived tongue selling the bruises on her skin as hickeys of love?
Forgive me for the selflessness I sought in exchange of your tears. Muffling my ears to everything but the word “help,” I stomped over your feeble frame, crushing you under my feet to fetch the saviour enthroned in my head more prey. Triumphing over the call of death every night, I called myself a warrior, unaware that every bone they borrowed was plucked out of my own bloody skeleton, a disguised suicide attempt. How could I have known validation from aid when the only people I ever loved ceased loving me the moment I uttered a no?
Forgive the sins of the sinner at your feet. She’s a bystander of life, tormented by her own pitiful sorrows and sloshed by her own fears. Bent against her autonomy, used against her will, she left her scrolls of fate at a place she detests ever revisiting. She cries at your grave without a heart to anchor her tears, or the strength to hold them back. How could she have known how to heal even if spoonfed when the layer of wounds on her skin never withered, never sewed?
To the soul that lived in my body, I ask for mercy. Please come back.