I am not the words you survived as you bury the one you denied, so inadequately placing each letter upon my soul by unfurled tongue of culpability and animosity.
I am she who you named.
I am not the lies she told bestowing words of friendship and love while at the table of comradery. As you portion the mane at the back of your erstwhile face to leave falsehood with memory and friendship to waste.
I am she seeing the vail of hypocrisy raised to the eyes of beholders bequest.
I am not the version of past immortalized in fractals of petulance held as his creed in a core blinded by superciliousness.
My eyes are inherent beside him hand laid upon shoulder where apprehension extended to love.
I am not the one you cannot see through eyes determined to hate.
I exist cradled at the feet of the deity promising defeat of the human indignity flowing unabashed from soulless conscience.
Deny my existence, yet I breath.
Lend my reputation to the devil with your misshapen defamations.
The story your audiences applad a fiction laid carelessly upon the living to conger hate as the narrarotor weeps for trivilized fabrication of disparity.
Scene two, Act three.
I retain my name but never the formidibility of the guilt twisted in projection at me.