Maybe you can get at it, if you really want to. Maybe there’s something there that you can poke your fingers through, like worn lace panty hoses smelling faintly of warm perfume and moist flowers. And then, with all of your hand through, you could grab for my throat, your breath thundering like a little bird’s chest.

I’d be all silent, just for you, with my all too large eyes wide open. Staring. I wanted to see your soul, wanted to know why you were giving me half of every dream, every hope spoken with words. Later on, you’d accuse me of having tried to fake an emotion.

I’m not sure whose act this is, but I know that you are dangerous.

There was desperation, futile longing and a distasteful need to say this, to tell you that I’m not as terrible as I acted, as I spoke, as I wanted to be wanted. I was human in your hands, and distrusting of myself.

But I caressed you. Stroked you the way you asked for. Played into your vision, danced on your fingertips. Did you not want this?


You settled it, broke the silence. Took us both down to the bottom of the sea. And there you told me the rules, attaching chains to our hearts. Whether I should believe you anymore at this point…you could just have left. Instead you spent your time being angry with me. Interpretation, effort and resignation mixed wildly. No, you weren’t taken with me, you just did a mistake. This was never supposed to have happened.

Now, while you tear down your walls and convince yourself, I will not listen to excuses so plain. Careful, gentle steps take me across the dunes, from bottomless oceans, ragged church ruins and a broken sky. A lingering scent of perfume trails after me.

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