It’s said of Death. It can be said of Hate. The court of public opinion. Rumors sprung from misunderstandings. Grudges sprung from a refusal to understand.
“You know me!” is a defense you use with a friend. I aim my pistol at the sky. But his eyes, they say “No, not at all.” Not enough, so that pleas and cries fall on the same deaf ears that memories of thank-yous and grateful affirmation do.
People will think what they want to. Or so I’m told, but I can’t stop trying to save what can’t be salvaged. A friendship. Someone’s good opinion. What’s my word against a whisper? I don’t have a name enough to have a good opinion of, because good is what you do not what you are and even I know that I haven’t been good enough enough times. Not for goodness to be assumed.
I know I am guilty until proven innocent and innocence is always harder to prove.
I don’t know how to continue, but I do. Because who cares how many times I try to explain? It’ll always sound like an excuse. I am no fool. I know what things look like in this light and even if I say I’m speaking the truth…what is the truth?
To most, just another good opinion.
I didn’t want this, but it was a job and I was given it, and maybe you get only one shot. I didn’t want to waste my shot. I am shot. And again. And again. And I keep trying to press on even though I don’t know how long I can go on for.
These are people still worth fighting for.
People can still die in these kinds of wars.
Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints; it takes and it takes and it takes, but…
(The same can be said about Hate.)
…we keep living anyway.