I have just stumbled across some utterly unbelievable pictures. Thank you Nikkyboy, you’re fabulous. Why didn’t you tell me??
Right, well. I did have something to say but it’s been utterly wiped from my brain. Now I’m back to the fingertrap pondering of relationships, trying to find in myself the endless young girl snakeskin shedding of this belief for that.
See, I know I have a problem. I’m aware of quandary and fire, that salt tears erode spirit faster than the weather in winter. It’s all old news, a headline that travels back farther than my family name. Simply put, I love a man who doesn’t love me back, not in any optimistic way, not with any modicum of respect, not enough. This is a star misalignment of being and need. My make-up requires more care than they give me, my building blocks want and they scream at me, going catatonic with infuriating logic, if he wants a whore, he should have hired one, it’s not like he bloody well isn’t a hell damned slut, not that I even know who’s he’s fucking or that he’d tell me, but see, here’s the kicker – I can’t make it matter. Something’s wrong with me.
He’s just a man, flesh and bone like the rest of them, two eyes to see me as something less than I am, two lips from which to fall back-pedaling excuses, but in some intrinsic way, he’s caught in me. He is my sweetest lapse of sanity. To me he smells like rain and tastes like the crackle of an endless static pattern, no matter how he hurts me in his selfishness. It hasn’t been relevant that with/out him I’ve been dying. With my heart, my health has taken a dive, the two tied together in an uncomfortable treaty. I fall now, dizzy from being unable to care for myself, and my eyes can’t close at night without filling with sky, not a beautiful twilight filled with glittering wonder, but a particularly empty span, lending no reason to move in any direction.