Your eyes did not match your face. They were young and naïve, a paradox to the
folds around your lids and the sparks of silver on your head. You felt my age,
immature and scared. But your eyes, they plead; plead for forgiveness, as your
lips shut so tight they were hardly there. My mind too unaware of the person that
was kneeling there, a scared man, a boy, a mere child.
And so you wept,
while I stood there, doubtful to the authenticity of your pain. A pain that will haunt me for years to come.
Lately, every time you got drunk, you were drowned with guilt. I was 13, and the nights when your devils would unleash, were rare. Despite being aware of wrong and right, certain wrongs didn't apply to you.
It was at the age of 13
that I contemplated the line between love and hate. And it was also at that age that I realized love triumphed everything, and hate was like a parasite. Love triumphed my actions that night, as you soaked my pants with your tears.
So in that moment, you needed comfort. You didn't say out loud that you were sorry, we both knew. So I touched your face and said it would all be ok.
Nayeli Monroy | San Francisco, CA