And what would you say if you could? *
Poor, poor, you. You have finally realized that I am not all the ills of this land. You sent your letter of apology. I sent back a large piece of paper that I folded in quarters, and on which I wrote one line—I forgave you a long time ago. I hope that you are well now; that you no longer invent cancers to get your lovers to stay.
And you: the banquet you offered was store-bought. FYI: Styrofoam cups full of pomegranate seeds peeled and separated by grocery store employees is not a gesture of love. A lover knows that to offer pomegranate seeds you must do the peeling and the separating yourself. You never earned the label ‘lover’; a lover would never have left the beloved alone, unprotected, in a place where a human or an animal could have ripped me to shreds. Which is what you did.
You call yourself a doctor and you put your hands on stomachs, feeling for the pain. You diagnose. You prescribe. You offer advice.But you don’t do it to heal. You do it to mask who you are—someone in need of a diagnoses, a prescription, and advice on how to free yourself from the lie of you.