.june sixth. You lost your status today, boy of juvenile summer. Today, you have fallen from that pedestal, lost your status in being the only one to ever claim me. Looking back, I truly despise you. I despise your hands that could not remain motionless - always reaching with primitive urging toward my body that could only tremble and shudder and shove my thoughts somewhere far away. It was you who taught me, indirectly, to disconnect my emotions from my actions, to leave the filth contaminating my body behind, far from touching a mind that had fallen into a hypocritical state with ideals of love and innocence and purity. I should have known that you could never be the one. Your hair, blonde in golden sun, never quite gleamed enough to satisfy me, only rustling now and then in the summer heat, reminiscent of dry husks of corn, their time of harvesting overdue, bathing in starched shells, waiting. Your hands were always rough, guilty of bruising, guilty of caring too little, guilty of taking too little time to give compliments of beauty, adoration, or something more than a whisper on stale flesh. Yes, you were a mistake. You always rushed in too quickly for the kill, as if all that mattered was the act of possessing me, in the end. And, in the end, did that make it all better? And, in the end, did the act of possessing make everything alright?