Though she had excused herself for what she had done, 

For the unnecessary antagonism she had created at the silent behest of her co-shit talkers, 

For leading him to believe she was his friend and for knowingly sending the nth degree of mixed signals, her heart at war with itself, 

For refusing to let him go and making everything worse, when it would have sorted itself out on its own over time, as he just needed to deal with loving her for nothing, 

And for the ultimate betrayal, when, clearly having been “advised” to do it, she turned ice cold , after she had just forced herself upon him. and took no responsibility for the emotional toll she had placed upon him.

Then she lied, and she kept lying … and she still lies. 

And, just when he thought he might have come to terms with everything, have completely let her go, allowed himself to hate her, she toyed with him again … roses, meaningless roses, red, the color of love. 

He had paid his price for his transgressions, only undertaken to mislead her and steer her lies away from him, nothing meant, nothing real. He had paid. But she had not accepted an ounce of guilt, and, for all the sorrow she caused for no fucking reason in the world, projecting her own trauma from another man onto him, unjustifiably, she owed him a debt that she never planned to pay, acting as badly as those who had done her wrong in the past. 

All she had to do was be honest. All she had to do was admit. All she had to do was tell him she loved him and hadn’t been able to let him go because of it. But her mind belonged to those who told her no. 

And her god would judge her for it, since she would not judge herself. She would reap the fire, metaphorical or transcendentally real, because she would not be honest with herself about anything. 

He’d seen her as an angel, but she was trapped in the base and material, trapped in ego and diffidence, trapped in appearance and reputation. None of it mattered in the end.