When did the pages of my sins begin to pile?
Was it when I harbored the thoughts in what I should do to my beloved mother, or was it when I was brought into this world of peril?
"Give me your love," I sometimes would beg my mother. Her love for me wavering as the days pass. If she had just held me that one evening, if she had kissed me where it hurt—then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be in so much pain.
I stare through the cracks of the door as she touches her wine glass with another—cheering with my friend as she thought I was not present. As they fall into deep slumber, I entered the room and wrapped my hands around her slim neck.
The memories of her inanimate face fuelled my mind with motivation, and a will to finally live. As I touch his body, his lips to my mouth—my dear mother is the one who crosses my mind. The sight of her beautiful limbs, forced into impossible angles, makes my body feel hot.
And the day came that red and blue lights flashed through the thick smoke that engulfed my fake love and I, we stare at each other's eyes—sharing one last kiss as we hope to see each other in another life.
But I know that with the weight of my sins, I would not see the rays of the afternoon sun once again.