This love of mine felt stuck, like a clogged vein. I wanted it to rush and pace, to swirl and move around, carrying life-affirming whispers to be absorbed and releasing the suffocating thoughts of grief and guilt.
Let me confess: this stupid clogged vein was stuck inside you, not me. I had to spell it out, like I usually did. What was the point in hiding when you and I both knew I was inside you? But we saw, you were trying to control me. It began to hurt.
I didn’t like feeling stuck in this straining, sluggish story. So, I made it easier for both of us. I released myself, free.
Since we knew, what was the point in trying to make a black heart glow with ruby red glory?
