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The blood that came each month after. At first, a disappointment, then a fear, then a grief, then an inevitability. I was good for nothing but blood.
As the pain recedes, I come back to myself enough that I do not quite know what I think of her solicitousness; one childish half of me longs to be tended to, but it is at war with the half that is tense with suspicion. What does this care mean? What sort of bargain do I enter into if I accept it?
I want to bring only those I like into my home. I want to have money and spend it as I wish. I want to travel, I want to sing, I want to see the world, I want to rule it. I want to be free. I want not to analyze every decision that lies before me. I want to act on whim. I want to follow each passing curiosity. I want to make mistakes. I want to ruin things. I want to lay down the vigilant watch I have kept over myself and my life.
You do not have to put yourself down to compliment me, I meant to say but I did not know how.
