I can still smell him on me; like a stain on a white garment that refuses to go away. No matter how much you scrub and wash, there is always that lingering mark, that stain that glares at you; mocking you with its defiance and laughing at the inefficiency of your choice weapons. The more I scrub, the more pronounced it becomes; no amount of washing or degree of searing hot water can sanctify an emotional stain, buried deep in the heart where even the strongest cannot reach.

I miss the days of innocence; when my love and excitement came from a well of purity, with crystal waters and crisp air. Where the hooves that set upon the earth spoke the language of love, contentment and harmony; it was a sight to behold and a pleasure to embrace. Where all the canaries gathered to compose a melody worthy of the ambience; a place where the sun was always shining and the flowers were always blooming. I remember running through the meadows with the wind against my face and what a joy it was to dance out in the rain. I miss chasing butterflies through the lily fields and telling stories under the calm, moon-lit nights.


For now my alabaster is broken, but no oil is flowing out; the spring has dried up and the sweet waters have been laced with bitterness. Every attempt to fill me only ends in disappointment, like sand seeping through the fingers. I need fixing, I need healing; I need to feel worthy again; worthy of love and desire, qualities that were eroded when my soul got defiled; when he prowled upon me and planted sin and rebellion in my conscience. I wish to forget it, to act as though it did not happen, but the flaming sword before me is a constant reminder of that which has been lost and that sadly, cannot be undone.


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