There is no argument among the members of the jury: I fucked up.
My mistake, a boundary somewhere on the path, blown past in my haste to understand. Sometimes, I rush to communicate and it backfires on me.
I am guilty.
Guilty of showing my insecurity. Guilty of applying pressure, something I promised never to do. Guilty of lashing out and not taking time to choose my words with care.
Guilty. As. Charged.
But the punishment Your Honor, was too severe.
The harsh degree of punishment did not befit the crime.
And in the face of these blows, I throw my hands up in defense and silently scream: This doesn’t fit my crime!!!
I can’t change the judgment. I can’t defend against this. I can’t undo the crime itself. I can’t get through to you.
I have moved on already. Multiple times and in a variety of positions. I have felt the tingling of emotion trying to blossom in my chest. And then I think of you.
And our friendship.
And our victory laps untaken.
And the dreams we confessed to each other.
And the sins we committed.
And the parting.
And the distance.
And my crime.
And the sheer void you left behind.
And the punishment that is still hurting.
And how it never fit the crime.
I pull back hard on the reigns of my heart. I pull into myself like a snail recoiling from unexpected touch. I push that tiny blossom down under a weighty cloak of boundless cynicism.
I could try to argue. But it would be pointless. In the end I have to accept my punishment. In the end, I have to submit to the Judge and Jury. In the end, it is just another end – I’ve survived enough of them to know I’ll get through this one too.
But you were to ask me, Your Honor, how I feel about my life sentence I would raise my voice and say: “THIS PUNISHMENT SUCKS!”
And it did not fit the crime.