Once, on a quiet night, I made a mistake. The funniest thing about mistakes seems to be that they aren’t mistakes at the time. Ever heard that saying? The one about not regretting anything because it’s exactly what you wanted at the time? What if what you wanted hurt everyone else, though? What if that one mistake, on a silent night in the dark, caused a thousand chain reactions that created problems one incident never could have predicted? He said you’re too old to be shy, so I stayed the night. I didn’t think this would happen. It was just one night! It was a simple mistake, please someone have mercy on me. We attempted to fill spaces in your sheets, and I tried not to cry as I realized I had just dug a hole that I couldn’t easily slip out of. It was a quite, still night, and no false whispers of love were exchanged, for we both knew I’d never be your lover. I was only there to provide a momentary fill for the impossibly deep chasm in your soul; I only provided the heat on a cold, silent night. The slow breath of regret filled us, and I knew I was hurting my boyfriend, I was hurting me, I was hurting, hurting, hurting. The pain created a shocking effect I didn’t expect. Wide eyed, I laid impossibly still next to you, feeling distant. Not there in the bed, not in that moment, but far, far away, already suffering the consequences of that still night. The physical pain was never as bad as the emotional turmoil I felt the morning after. You were the one I hated the most, yet I found myself laying down next to you. I heard once that the place that causes you to hate someone in your brain is directly next to the place that causes you to love. Maybe this is why I learned from you, the one I hated the most.
Once, on a quite, silent night, I layed down my life for yours, and rose again, wishing to be dead instead than live with the shame of our silent night.