My One Fear

They say failure is part of the process.

You learn from your mistakes.

You improve over time.

Practice makes perfect;

That is the adage, right?

Think about how scary that is.

I am not afraid of failure.

Never have been.

Because I believed in the process.

However, for it to be a process

There must be some progress.

So what happens when there isn't?

I am not afraid of failure.

I have failed many times before.

But how many more times will there be?

I would rather struggle with the mountain

Through hardship and strife

Than find myself on a plateau.

If practice makes perfect, 

Then the day it yields no more increase

Surely, it means you have arrived.

Thus, if that day comes before you hoped

Then it quietly signals

'Your perfect is nothing of note.'

That is what scares me the most.

The thought of just how imperfect

My perfect can be. 

I am not afraid of failure

I will fall if I must.

But mediocrity-

Mediocrity.

- terrifies me. 

Perspective II

There were rivulets of sweat running down his forehead now.
Gbenga was staring down at Ndidi under him; careful about how much weight he rested on her small frame.

He leaned down to kiss her open mouth and nibble softly on her lower lip. She threw her head back as he plunged his tool hard into her again, her breath coming in fast shallow gasps. He felt her nails digging into his skin and he smiled, she was simply urging him on. And so he obliged, pulling back and thrusting deep into her; again and again.

Faster now, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. She was screaming, faintly. With swift precise movements, he hit all the vital spots he could, drowning in the ecstasy of the moment and in her bodily fluids.

He saw her eyes roll back as she began to quiver. A guttural sound escaped her throat and she stopped and settled. He took in the view for a second… before withdrawing his tool from inside her, letting her liquid essence drip off of it.

Satisfied, he grabbed his shirt off a discarded pillow and wiped the blood off his knife before holstering it. He took one last look at Ndidi’s beautiful bloodied body, smile spread slowly across his lips as he admired his handiwork. Death was indeed very artful at times, he thought to himself.

Then he headed out, hurrying home to his wife.