I am angry

I am angry...

I am angry at an illness that came uninvited, invading my body, whether I wanted it or not.

I am angry at an illness that refused to go away when I wanted it to, to disappear into thin air, as if it was never there.

I am angry because I had to confess that I did hide the severity of the symptoms from you, because of my own reluctance to go and seek medical help.

I am angry because as much as what I try to evade the truth, I can barely manage to hide it or conceal it. In the end, I always pull it out – to show you, confess to you, of what I have done or not done.

I am angry that you wanted me to explain why I did what I did, when I barely understand it myself.

I am angry that even though I did try, I knew that nothing I said could justify any of it.

I am angry that you saw my pitiful arguments and reasons put forward for what it was, nothing more than empty words trying desperately to deflect away from my own stubbornness and silliness.

I am angry that you are not going to let this one slip by, your calm voice telling me what will be, your logic and arguments closing every avenue of escape I could think off.

I am angry at my helplessness to stop the scribbling of a pen on paper, knowing that even with the months in between, this will only be between you and me.

I am angry that when the day arrive, I will have to crawl over your lap and feel your hands lower my panties,  for a punishment now recorded according to date and time.

I am angry that when my bottom will burn and turn red from your hand and a tawse, and when I squirm and want it all to stop, I will be reminded of this day.

I am angry, because I know that you are right.

I am angry...with myself.