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In the past, I am brilliant and I am happy and my every tomorrow is madness.
It wasn’t even a lie. The only thing I’d misrepresented was the likelihood of me feeling up to doing anything ever again.
What use to the sane, after all, were the words of the mad?
Minutes, hours, years, eternities later, I put myself back together.
I had two choices: I could go back, or I could go on. Going back was simply not an option. And didn’t they say all roads lead somewhere?
“Not being rude or nuffin, but I fink what I want to fink abaht you is up to me, babes.”
The impossible ouroboros of want and wanting, the twin pleasures of giving and taking, swirled together as richly as oils upon a canvas.
I stared at him, for a moment utterly speechless at the magnitude of everything. “I’m going to make you so unhappy,” I blurted out. “What? When? Can’t you like do it in the morning?”
He kept making me feel things in ruined places.
I don’t know if what I think is what I think, if what I feel is what I feel, if any of it at all is me.
I would wake in the middle of the night, or pause arrested in my day, because my skin would shiver with the memory of a touch. As though it wanted to tell me something.
