I asked how much she thought she knew me on a scale of one
to ten;
given that I myself had pegged this number around at least
an eight,
but she replied sometimes
a seven, but honestly a meagre five,
as though I were asking how much she thought I knew about
her.
Even if it were the
case, a figure of three would’ve been a stretch,
It’s fascinating how guilt would make humans undercompensate
one’s efforts;
only to shield themselves from their own apparent dodgy
deeds,
all in a bid to cleanse them
of any blame.
A girl whom I had conversed with for no longer than three
weeks;
had given a shockingly different
response to hold the former statistic in disrepute,
confessing to knowing about
seventy percent of who I was,
and owning up to revealing an
enormous ten percent of herself.
Of course, I expected this
girl to give a measly figure,
how else could she possibly
underplay my endeavours toward her,
for in times of anguish and
loneliness, like the sun I always provided warmth,
but I had received no such
embrace but affectionate shrugs.
She said our many spells of shared
laughter were no proof of true acquaintance,
despite the fact, we had
known each other for approximately two years,
once again bringing to
question what my friendship ever was,
maybe merely a dose of veiled
smiles and hours of idle chatter birthed by convenience.
And then she signed her
murderous note with a dash of political correctness,
sprinkling a teaspoon of
false appreciation to quell the flames of pain in my heart,
to hurriedly quench the
thirst of my soul for an earthly companion,
teaching me never to gift
compassion to an abyss that swalloweth good intent.
Adesina Aanuoluwapo John - 2017
