This Brand of Sin

I am innocent. Of certain lots of things.
Sacred lots of things, with women.
But it doesn't seem so. For I make some of them ‘victims’. Or so they accuse me. For their gods – a Jesus to Mohammed – forbid their deeds. But only for them to crawl back. To my ever waiting arms. For the same ‘sins’. And then, again, blur my innocence.

This image I never like, being guilty, for ‘sins’ that are not mine. I shouldn't care though, but I do. I should let them be star actors all they want but enjoy the warmth of those dim-lit breathtaking hours, they hardly resist, of peace. But silly I care for what they feel too.

Thing is, I’m not guilty as accused.
I am an adult. And if I could make a lot of adult decisions in life, I should be able to accept the outcomes.
Like a woman should too.
Like every adult should; to be some holier-than-thou saints or some baptized repenting sinners, to keep falling from the skies like the angels who were not contented with seeing the adult-life passing them by or save their innocence for rapture, to understand they are free to believe in things – real and unreal.


Hurting the next person physically and, or emotionally is the sin against nature – for my mindkind. Other sins beneath and above that – as accusing someone of dragging you into, while you were smiling and joyfully calling some gods' names with wet eyes – are but only exist in the mind of the doctrines of the accuser.