I like the lie, it used to be easier. Makes me almost believe I can turn and run. Back to the person I was before I knew what I know. She’s always had her sad eyes open. Sadness exists whether she admits it or not, acknowledges it, or not, the only difference being, the choice to feel or not and an indifferent belief in the charade of conscious choice.

A choice to love.

I have sparks. Sparks in the watery sadness that trickle through my soul. Sparkiness defying the water. Setting fire to the sadness. Burning it up. Burning it up.

I was so hot in bed last night I thought I would spontaneously combust. I got so hot, I felt a panic that I barely recognised, like consumption and heat, like being airless in life’s passion fuelled fire.

I don’t want to die in flames.

I do not want to die in water.

I do not want to die,

As I surrender to what is and what is not. As I surrender to the fire and the flood.
As I surrender to the weightless unknown.

I feel the unadulterated terror of being alive.

I feel my guts churn.

My face flush.

My anger rise.

My heart pound.

My indignance chokes me as I gag on everything I should have said but didn’t, as I retch on everything I should have done but didn’t, everything I could have been but wasn’t.

I ask if his aggression is the same as his anger. (He says not and I am relieved, like an enlightened outbreath).

I ponder what movement of my body would most catch his interest.

My chest flutters.

There’s surging sensation under my skin pressing for release.

My fire.

My ice.

My geothermal.


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