Masquerade

by O.O. Sangoyomi

“She makes that silly flower again and again, yet she still does not understand that it would not have died had it not been beautiful enough to be picked in the first place.”

“I am tired of running only to be shunned wherever I go. I want somewhere I can stay and live in peace—even if I must fight for that peace.”

It was easy for Àrmọ to love me; it cost him nothing. However, it seemed that I was expected to love him by giving myself to him. I had already given him my hand; how much more of me must I give? What would I have left?

I knew who he was: the same as me. He waged wars, ravaged entire villages, and killed countless people. And I committed an act equally as violent: I loved him.

I loved him— But was this love? This twisting in my stomach every time I thought of him? The bruises left by my heart as it ricocheted within my chest whenever I heard his name? I could not sleep; I could hardly focus. I thought of him so much that I could no longer call my mind my own. I did not know if this feeling was love or if it was hatred.