Something

I wrote in a dreadful rush, and therefore expect no literary value in this, it's merely a confession.

I have been guilty of
the blackest treachery
that the world has known.

And I have spent countless days
in the effort to exonerate myself.
In the attempt to convince
others but mainly myself
that it was not me who
committed any crime.

I have failed in this effort.

My only excuse is that never,
ever was I insincere.

Always did I mean what I said to you.
And while there were several things,
too many to name or number,
that I should have voiced, and didn’t voice,
for far, far too long, when I did say something;
whatever it was that I said-
I meant it.

Now vast constructions have been wrecked
by the lateness of my actions;
by the baseness of my treachery.
And no longer do I know where
we’re going to go.
But there is only one thought that I would
like to repeat, no longer in the effort to excuse
my actions, but merely to qualify them.
Never was I insincere.