Forget-Me-Not.

Every betrayal contains a perfect moment; A coin stamped heads or tails, with salvation on the other side...

     Today, I can feel the pang of hurt in my chest when I think her name. Dearest grandmother. Can you imagine my surprise when you betrayed me? Can you imagine how deeply this scar runs? Further than my heart and my mind, even? Into my subconcious, my nights, my days, my every thought - You've tainted me with your vile mistakes. I wonder, even, if you admit to yourself what you've done. What you did. What you still do. You remained in love with my torture, more literally than I'd like to say. To it alone, were you loyal. You gazed into it's eyes, and saw nothing of the truth. Not because you are blind, but because you chose to shut your eyes.

     Dear Grandmother,
Can you see me now? Hindered by my mistrust? Collapsing under my disorder? Do you ever see pictures of me, and think of the harm you caused? Do you ever see the innocence in those old photos and remind yourself how you assisted in it's murder? Co-conspirator in the ruin of my mind? Of my life? Do the eyes you imagine behind the lense torture you and turn your stomach to glass, forever pricking and cutting and remaining sharp, like mine?
     Do you ever think to yourself that you are no better than the culprits themselves? I do. Sometimes, I think you're worse.
     When I think of them, I am disgusted. I am hurt. I think of how they might blame me, how they would tell everyone around that I ruined them with my confessions, the poor things... I think also of how they escaped... And with your assistance...
     When I think of you, I think of a perfect moment in an instance of greatest betrayal. I think of the time in the black truck, while you sat and lied to my tear-stained face, telling me you believed me, and then turning your back on me. If you believed me... If you still believe me, how can you go on? Knowing what you did? How you left me? Can you imagine me crying, without a shred of innocence or happiness left inside my little body? Does it hurt you?
It hurts me. More than any physical wound ever could. Worse than death, on the best of days... Though I've internalized my screams and my tears. You won't hear me cry out, again. Not for anything.
    Not to worry, though, right? Because surely when I think of those that need forgiveness, you are not the first person I think of. Surely other tortures come to mind, and stand out like slivers of brightest red in the darkness. But you are the last, and the most painful. I trusted you, blindly. I put faith in you when you claimed to love me, and care for me. I trusted that my Grandmother would protect me. What a fool I was, then.
     I want you to lose sleep, like me. I want your apology. I want you to admit your crimes.
I also want to pretend I don't already know that you won't. I'd like to play pretend in a world where your heart isn't black and your concience screams into your ears like a train thrown from it's tracks. I want to make believe that you cry to yourself when no one is around. That your guilt not only exists, but eats you alive. That you feel what I feel; that you look in the mirror with a look of disgust and unrest on your face. I want to believe that you can't sleep. That you're forever plauged by nightmares, like me.
You little cowardly thing... How did I ever love you? How do I continue?

Forget-me-not.