. . .
Why do I do this? Because I have to have to have to have to have to have to do this.
Because he wants me to be a beige thing, soft and round. If I am moving, moving, nothing keeps up, nothing holds on. It all falters and tumbles in my wake.
I know this is not the usual way. I know there are other ways. I’m willing. I’m open. Show me your
version of the unbearable jagged wincing cheek biting howling jig along the building’s ledge that makes you love the world a little bit more once the anguish eases.
Love yourself a little bit more the longer you can endure it.
And thus engaged, hold all else at bay. But until then, I will not be denied this. Because in the marrow of my bones it sings.
In my sleep at night it plucks lovingly at my lashes.