Every ounce of grief
was in your head,
not your heart,
I know it was different,
but it didn't mean
we were dead.
"Honor him,"
you said,
implying I needed
to repent,
but I told you
that isn't my bent.
When you don't have rules,
you don't break rules,
no remorse,
no wallowing in regret,
no seek-out of redemption.
It's all a circular charade,
I don't have the time to stomach.
You make the rules
so your life plays like cinema,
so you feel like you are fighting
for something,
knowing at any given moment
you could retrogress.
I don't want to taste retreat,
there's no "honor" in that.
I'm straight. I'm progress.
I'm not digging trenches,
I'm not holy,
I'm not unholy,
I'm areté.