Do I want to write about all the dizzying years? The heart, wrenching? The ravished and ravaged soul, and the self I became despite and because of it? I feel so far from that now. Was it a dream?
And here I am again, in some godawful corridor, hall of mirrors…. It’s tiring, I want to get out. Is it always this way? Or do I choose unwisely. “Don’t get trapped” spoke the heavens clearly on that fateful night of folly and first forays and fingers. So much happened with fingers, pain and pleasure and the most exquisite poetry passed between us.
Yet here I am, again. Like a carousel pony with a fixed garish grin, impaled and endlessly in circular motion. Only a different rider each time, someone else getting a giddy thrill then jumping off when they start to feel sick.
Oh woe. This is why I don’t want to write about it. This cynical self-defense. This bitter narration, dubbing over the fragile depths and exquisite angles of it all. This voice that tells me no, don’t believe, and don’t ever hope. Don’t show anyone that bleeding heart in your pocket, twist out the tale with pretty irony and shadowy scorn. Oh she’s a dark one. But gutsy with it.