Infidelity.

Once a player always a player, they say, as though repeating this sentiment somehow makes it true. Similarly, old dogs and new tricks are a match made in Hell. It then becomes no surprise that so many of us fail, as society centres on concepts that leave little room for repentance. Why would a leopard attempt to change when its spots are permanent, when it can just resign to its fate instead? Change can only occur when coupled with a desire so strong it could move mountains. Growth is possible if we accept our flaws and then still humbly strive to blossom. We are reminded so often that we cannot transcend that this self-fulfilling prophecy leaves little room to make amends.  The cowardice of cheaters is worse than any other disease, in that it ravages trust so badly that it could reduce even the hardest stones to dust.  The focus is misplaced as every part of the act itself is scrutinized, when the antecedents or emotions involved are ignored, as though they are unworthy of being analyzed.  As someone who has been unfaithful in the past, I can attest that the razor sharp guilt that comes with it results in too many sleepless nights.  The fights that develop could all have been avoided if communication had not died, if only the flame of love had stayed alive.  We ultimately decide whether we want to stray from honesty, the masters of our own domains, we have the choice to honour our promise of monogamy.  The social death that occurs from the act is akin to being excommunicated; as though, isolation is the only way for our sin to be redeemed.  A witch hunt of sorts ensues whose only goal is execution as if we must be burned at the stake for being unable to learn from our mistakes.  Evolution has been proven if we can break free from the prison of our own thoughts; life has provided us with a wonderful opportunity to learn.  I will not be broken by the disproval of peers or society as I have learned to rise above, opting to change my ways instead.  Free from the reins of dishonesty, I have reached a level of bliss that my past could never have achieved.  I am inaccessible to infidelity as the examination of my suffering showed me the path to righteousness.  Honesty is now the only foundation upon which I would ever build a home, as openness in love and life rarely result in hearts broken by lascivious lust.  Society chastised me by perpetuating proverbs that wanted for me to fail; my resilience on my journey to understand myself is what finally helped me prevail.   

Incognito.

Driving through the streets with my windows tinted, I wish you would notice me but it’s like I don’t exist.  Incognito though I need you more every time I remain ignored, unable to break free from feeling anonymous.  Hidden from the world, like I reside behind a veil with little chance to grow; I just want to be loved.  A dream for me is for my name to escape from your lips, for you to acknowledge the hurt that I have within.  Vying for your attention like a child devoid of love or autonomy, your apathy is unfounded as I beg and plead for you to become aware of me.  My heart breaks every night after accepting that you do not care, drowning in my own self-loathing; my lungs struggle for air without you here.  Your acceptance, somehow, means more to me than myself; I have lost the will to breathe, knowing you has become the only cure for my disease.  I wake up every day aspiring to hear you say my name, then die a thousand deaths when nothing changes and inexplicably remains the same.   Resigned to a future without you by my side, I am forced to be satisfied with merely being alive.  Lost amongst the shadows, I will haunt you from afar; my desperation runs its course now, there is no hope left for me to be your shining star.  With hollow faith, I write my name and place it into the Wailing Wall, with a prayer that the universe responds through you before time turns into regret.  It will only be too late if my efforts were all in vain, and when our lives have both passed us by without you ever possessing the power unlocked by uttering my name.  Sand slipping through fingertips is just as slow as time measured in an hourglass, yet each moment feels too long because each one could be my last.  Through it all, the thought of you keeps my spirit alive and burning strong, it will all be worth it when my name becomes your song.

Truth.

Inconsistent with the brutal love that I believed that I had earned, your appreciation for me, at first, made me question if it was even something that I deserved.  Through concepts that now seem simple, like trust and honesty, you showed me what it means to be loved in my entirety.  Always where you say you will be, no lie has ever been born inside your beautiful mind and then imparted from your lips.  You listen without prejudice, always supportive without judgment as I am slowly learning the meaning of true happiness.  Your doting kiss is often paired with compliments, I feel my worth increase every time your actions comply with your words.  No false promises, you only speak the truth.  We rarely fail to see eye to eye, but when conflict rises I am astonished by our ability to forgive. The freedom to do whatever I please, although alien to me from lovers past, is what guides me back to you each night; not my first love, but I pray you are my last.  Communication between us flows as naturally as rivers become seas; every word as soothing as a Mediterranean breeze.  Accustomed to the third degree and jealousy combined with toxic control, I almost resigned to my fate, assuming that this was the only way I should be adored.  I confused comfort for love, refusing to acknowledge that I was hurt; a mere shell of the man that I was born to be.  In my weakest hour, you appeared accompanied by a reserve of strength that slowly made me fall in love with you and myself anew.  Like an ocular transplant, my new eyes and perfect vision fill me with hope, as I now know, because of you, that I deserve to be loved.   Unexpectedly, you unlocked my true capacity to love, revealing to me what I had always denied; our bond will not bend or break, your affection makes it feel wonderful to be alive.

Hands.

My mother’s hands, the same ones that held my own, when I was learning to walk, were not fast enough to catch me when I decided that I was going to run

I was precocious and believed I knew it all, that somehow I had outgrown her, my very first friend, and that I was invincible; I could not fail.  

She was there as I turned every corner, though I pretended she did not exist.  Despite my arrogance, I still landed into her arms with every fall, desperate for the cure of her doting kiss.

Nursed back to health, I chose to forget her loving care and was once again dedicated to my own detriment.  In a rush to grow up, I experimented with every poison, convinced that it was surely what would help me mature.

In my teenage haste, I failed to observe my mother’s hands folded in prayer, and wondered instead when she would distance herself from my despair.   In reality, she was asking God to help repair the lost little lamb that took too many wrong turns yet fancied himself a man.

Anyone else would break if subjected to my torment, my behaviour worsening by the hour with each new cry for help.  

But not my mother… she possessed immeasurable strength, and managed to withstand each atrocity that I unleashed.

Many would have given up or in, unable to continue fighting a losing war.  This was when her hands grew tired and ached with pain, weathered from my stubborn storms.

Sunny days surrounded by sycophants as I rejected the unconditional love at home, turned quickly cold as my false pride held my head up to deny the consistent truth.

My lowest moments arrived amidst the lost souls that also sailed through dire straits; they provided me with clarity, shaking me awake.

Tail between leg, I crawled home like a vagabond on the final leg of his journey.  Filthy and matted with shame and self-loathing, I reached out blindly in the dark.

My mother’s hands, tense but forgiving, were miraculously still there waiting to be accepted.  I fell to my knees, and caught the most brief, beautiful glimpse of paradise at her feet.

The hands that fed me, held me as I slept and also dried my tears in infancy, retained their memory and reassured me similarly as I grieved.

In adulthood, I look upon my mother’s hands in awe, as they age gracefully, and are still just as soft. 

I will never hesitate to count my blessings, of which, she is number one.  My own hands have learned selflessness from observing hers.  

The strength and guidance from my mother’s hands taught me how to walk and now I can finally stand, proudly holding my mother’s hand.