Shameful Weeping

I don't grasp this.

I don't comprehend it.

The words that they're saying,

They run through me like liquid ice.

They chill the organs,

Don't pause to be absorbed,

But rush through,

Slamming, barging,

Like your words.

They hit, rapid fire,

Ceaseless.

I didn't do it!
I didn't!

I did not attempt the wrong that you accuse me of!

I did not try to light this rightful fury underneath you.

There was no malicious intent.

There was no intent at all!
I tried nothing.

My words?

They were hollow.

My theories? Books? Studies?

No foundation.

I ceased to be a meaningful cog,

In your machine.

I served no purpose,

Unless, perhaps,

You groomed me to be the scapegoat.

Take this fall for you.

Yes, that was it, wasn't it?

You designed me,

With my imperfections,

My human desires and longings,

To be the nail of the blunt end of the hammer.

To be pounded into the rough wood,

So that I would conform.

But you made me a rebel…

You encouraged my individuality.

Why, now, am I slammed against walls,

Laughed at, ridiculed, punished,

For something that you told me to be?

What wrong did I do to you?

Was it because you were so meticulous in your work that I no longer heeded you?

I had become so fiercely individual that I felt no need,

For your instruction, for your guidance.

This is passive punishment.

The addressing of a grievance that you have harbored.

My punishment is a direct effect.

The locking away of original thought,

One that flourished.

My conformity, the lack of it,

That's the source of this,

The power source that started this whole damn mess.

Well I'm sorry.

Sorry that you could not stand up to defend your precious project.

Sorry that you became a coward in the face of death.

I shall take this punishment,

I will become a martyr.

They may take my life from me,

But I will make it so that I am a willing participant.

Thus my individual, fostered mind shall be reduced to ashes,

As the flame ascends the log,

And you will weep,

Though, not in public.

You will go to your corner,

Your solitary corner,

In the dark,

Where none can see.

And you will weep.

You will weep that you were not strong like I,

You will weep because you have lost your pet project.

You will weep because you are weak.

You may weep.

I shall oblige this to you.

For, in the end, my death is yours,

For you made me who I am,

Who I became persecuted as…

You made this.

And I cannot blame you,

For mourning the death of a part of you.

No matter how little I know.