Blood’s Between the Pages

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Somewhere in the distance, some unimpressive fireworks are going off.

You haven’t written, or, texted, or called.  So.  I feel like, some evening, when whatever else is going on stops working out, I’ll come to mind in the very clever, very quick thinking machine of Mr. Confusion.  And perhaps, in a few months, there will be a startling hello.  I don’t know why I feel this way.  I just know that if it were otherwise, all of this would be otherwise.  And that makes me feel rather less than.  Even releasing it to Oprah’s Secret Universe doesn’t mean that I don’t feel what I feel, tried to exist in the Girl Dating Universe and found my foray there cut off rather abruptly.   Nobody wants to be someone’s last choice for dodgeball much less last choice for an emotional connection.

It seemed hard to figure out for a time.  We wrote to one another so passionately and I had in my head those immortal lyrics from Johnny Flynn’s “The Wrote and the Writ” – “Don’t say in a letter what you can’t in my ear.”  And so I threw myself out there, perhaps relatively only inches, but for me, it felt a Grand Canyon.  It felt as though he could say whatever he wanted so if he isn’t saying something now, it’s because he doesn’t want to.  “Do you suppose they swapped their blood for wine, like you swap yours for ink, for ink?”

It seems quite plain to me now that it’s not the words.  It’s not what’s said, it’s the rusted trap that where they lay.  It’s the lady in charge of them.  The box that they came in.

I mean, that’s just Occam’s Razor, isn’t it?  I have no idea.  There is no exit interview.  I am among the wandering masses of singledom in pilgrimage.  There is no miraculous burning of shrubbery where I am given to know he doesn’t find me pretty enough to spend ten minutes writing back to.  Nobody ever knows, it’s just darkness until you throw your dice again.  You’d like to think that we could both transcend these terrible fears and assumptions, but I don’t have the mental flexibility.  Or, maybe I fear the power of the delusion most of all.  That this “ghosting” coincides with a recent run of really destructive body stuff, well, that’s lovely.  I feel like a thick wrapper of bacon greasily shaped around hell.

I’ve decided to work on that part of it.  Not for him or for anyone other than myself.  Because I have no control over his desires.  Or yours or those of the universe.  I am not happy right now.  So this means eating differently, doing differently, being differently.  And the ways of now, the addictions that are supposed to help but haven’t, the pushing forward I have tried to begin and begin and begin and I’ve delayed for perfection’s sake.  All of that has to go.  All of that has to die at midnight.  With a bloody axe through its neck.

All this being said, I am on the come-down now.  And tomorrow is a new day.

 

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