regret

...And feathers on her grave. 
A watercolour image I couldn't ever leave behind, blue green promises, rain behind my eyes. 
Ghostly kisses on my sleeping cheek, I wake to memories, alive again in a broken night.   
         Can still feel her here, in this room.
Sweet nothings.
Now.  Now do I see, what have I done?
Devil made me do it.
         I had been so good, so very careful, for so many years.  Yes, I had been so good.  Only watched, the sights burning my heart, searing the bloodied ash, the ice burn of caged passion.  I had touched, yes, but so lightly, ever so slightly,
innocent touches upon innocence. 
Intention without action still equals innocence, does it not?  The Defence. 
Not so innocent.
So beautiful, so perfect.  Untouched, around me, unknowing, smiling eyes.  Expectation.
Carefree little angels.
Do you know?     
Yes, despise me.  Spit on me.  Beat me and crucify me.  Go home satisfied. 
Kiss your lover.
It is only a matter of time. 
         Thoughts on my weakness.
         I know, nothing of the smiles, the caring and love I gave or ever received through my life will ever be considered. 
We are, by our sins remembered.
If by our saints forgotten.
(A miracle is no less miraculous for causing harm instead of good - ?).
         Yet, should I try, dare to even attempt justification of my actions?  No.  And I wouldn't.  I know you could never understand.  So why should I try?
It is very much a bitter love.  No chance of lasting happiness, even if the world could tolerate it.  Time kills the beauty I adore, no matter how special.  A death, you could never comprehend.
Your judgments, such hand-me-down morality.
So I tried so hard, to fit in. 
I gave them all my mercy, a secret gift, of peace of mind.
So don't they owe me?  Have I not been good?
         And you feel no sympathy for me, none at all.  And is that not how it should be?
         You go through all the police training, and enroll in the special division courses.  You help to track down ‘these scum’.  But you do so, as a way to get into all, unlimited access to the worst of it, with no suspicion. 
My God, you had never dreamt of such things.
And you work as a carer, as a nurse, when you can check anywhere for injuries or infections.  When you're only thinking of their well-being, a parents trust in you can be a fascinating example of selective blindness.  You can see, touch, anything you want.
         Then, even that isn't quite enough.  So you work so hard for that teaching degree, you dedicate your every other waking moment to achieving it.  Then the gates of sinners heaven have opened.  Every year, a new classroom of faces, handed by their own families into my care.
         Remember, when you wished every day were Christmas?
         I said,
         the devil made me do it.
         We all need an excuse.
The purest little angels of innocence, tugging at my coat-sleeves and looking up with such shining eyes.  Oh God, sometimes its hard to breathe. 
A spark, lost with age.  So eager, so fearless, for discovery.  For love.  For protection.
Gender, at such an age, is a tantalizing study in ambiguity. 
"Gender". 
Such a vulgar word, don't you think?
           And then, there was mine, my special girl.
         I make you sick.
I wanted to kiss her heart, hold her so close, to feel her life, a virgin melody.
Hold me.
And rest in peace.
         The devil made me do it.
         My special girl, I would have done anything for, except leave.
Am I a predator?  Or a helpless victim of societies’ isolating factors?  Was I moulded into this through every conversation, every rejection, every prejudice and every eventual acceptance I have experienced? 
There, my persecutor, is an excuse. 
Not to blame a single other, but to blame everyone.  Its all your fault.  All of you.
         I have been accused of being distant, cold hearted.  Even homosexual in several eternally tedious moments of heated proximity.
And Yes, I've read Lolita.  Many times. 
Has it influenced me?  Could it stand up in court as violent movies do for smirking young
murderers, scrubbing blood off their trainers? 
No, because reading presumes intelligence in the criminal in a way such movies do not. 
         So what can I say?
         Devil made me do it.
Where are my thoughts headed, what is my point? 
This is undoubtedly about possession, my wish to possess her, utterly. 
Even if it meant hurting her, keeping her away in tears and destroying her. 
Piece by piece.  Yes. 
I didn't want her to be happy.
I wanted her to be mine.
I hate myself more than you could ever know, despise the knowledge that I am capable of such, but still.  To have her, as mine and mine alone I could put her through anything.
And for the right eyes, so could you.
Are you so afraid to believe that?
Everything, everyone is founded in selfishness, it is the basis of intelligence.  Of life.  Why did Adam and Eve really desert Eden?  Because they didn't want to share.  Not even with their blindly incestuous children.
I was so selfish, I wouldn't have died for her.
This water I throw myself to, tastes so sweet.
I have been told, that God gave us Hope. 
God has given me many things, and none as heartless.
Thoughts on my weakness, but is it only mine?
Hope is, it seems, sometimes all I have left.  And this is decidedly unfortunate.
Hope, is a heartbreaker.
I am evil, a murderer, a liar and the lowest form of life.
So you say. 
Then we all are.
Hope, in a way, was a killer.  I feel now I can lay the blame elsewhere.
A light around her, a pale fire, the others I had worshipped now mocking imitations of her perfection.  More than I had ever dreamed.
And the truth will set you free. 
So suffer the little children.
She was perfection, in every way.
Kiss her heart, just because I'm not supposed to feel real love.  Something to prove.
I could hurt her, in our moments alone, just to make her cry.  To feel her life.
I had to teach her to keep little secrets at first, from the first day she arrived in my class.  But I bided my time, until she would keep anything secret for me.
Anything at all.
Hope it seems, Virginia Hope, my special girl, was in every way you promise to be good for, the love of my life.  The light of life in every second, the reason behind every breath, the destination for every journey.
And Hope is dead, long gone beneath the flowers left for her.
More meaningless gifts I cannot imagine.
Without you.
My life, which cannot move on with the burden of her memory, weight upon my shoulders.
I tell you this, and all I wish for is forgiveness, not remembrance. 
I am not entirely sure I wish to be remembered
I said she was a killer, and this is true.  She was a victim of her own perfection, too much for my world to sustain, for another who could see the light she walked in to live on.
All I have ever had was Hope.
Devil made me do it.
Yes, yes.  He took a liking to me.
This life, turns I have taken, the inevitable bend sinister.
No one else could ever take her or have her.  Once she grows she dies, my little love dies, helpless from time.  But I could save her from that.
If your world is a single point, as long as that point is lit, nothing else matters.  You can feel no pain, no sorrow no despair, guilt, remorse, fear.  Nothing. 
Only light. 
This, I must believe, or die trying.
Such emotion, love, from second to second, is something that can only be given, never taken away.  In such thoughts, I find my solace. 
Thoughts on our weakness.
If I should fall from grace with God.
I remember, as I cried my premature tears of loss, her perfect eyes shining as her perfect voice asked, "What's wrong?"
Nothing, my dear, no.  Nothing at all.
I said, the devil made me do it.
I remember her eyes, as she asked.
"What's wrong Miss?"...