sometimes even the most beautiful things function as shackles when you wear them wrong.
why – with my swollen fingers and choked back tears and impotent rage – can I still be lulled by the bass notes in your voice? why don’t I want to scream, to run, to disappear?
let’s not lose the facts: I do want these things, sometimes.
maybe there are no happy endings.
in the white noise of the traffic outside and the belligerent voices of the well meaning neighbors and the sleepy sighs of the child asleep in the next room I build a list of a million reasons…
to burn it all down
then it recedes and the neighborhood is quiet and I am alone with a buzzing blankness that settles heavy and leaves me wanting
why do we love this way? with everything we have left?
why do we covet the things we know have the power to break us?
and do we break?