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she loves that feeling when she has it of all these bubbles in her head rising of what to address - what to process - what to
scribe
here.
hello.
She's surrounded by the scent of freshly-sprayed nature's miracle and male cat urine. that cannot be gotten through - sort of like the splinter in your eye versus the boulder. Well, something like that.
"... drunk on the kind of applause that gets louder the lower you sink..."
The olfactory onslaught was maddening. Nothing could be gotten through it except brute disassociation.
She had come to some revelations.
It tied back to the replacements: "the ones who love us best are the ones we'll lay to rest and visit their graves on holidays at best. The ones who love us least are the ones we'll die to please. If it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand it."
"we are the sons of no one..."
"Where is that pee"
Those are the thoughts, oh wait, they'll be more surely.
"you empty-headed little fool"
She chortled a bit at the keyboard. It was hilarious to ... oops, the thought was gone. She was in a daze.
Ah, there it was, she chortled at the thought that her new resolution was to be 20% more clear. Could she try even in this fantastic crucible? hmmmmm.
The clearest most concise thing she could say would be...
"I find it all utterly terrifying to imagine enduring without a hand to hold who knows my entire truth. I'm afraid of being hurt by showing myself. It has happened before. I want to be authentic. I hide from you until you give me candy."
"grow up."
--
She remembers crying on her morning walk just briefly. It was relatively rare for her to cry on her walks... nowadays. It was over her first marriage. She thinks of it because it was the last time she went all-in with someone who went all-in with her. It was love. She just got so scared, and fucked up and thought that therapy was too much money and she wasn't worth it and besides she hadn't had it "that bad" so she she quit complaining.
It made her weep
because it cost so many
so much
her mostly
(not to be selfish)
she lost you again and again and had to know it
like an evil dr. who.
(what if dr. who wasn't perfect)
spring always made her remember mark and wilmington and happy and parties and yards and rivers and oceans...
it was maddening
she was here.
she had anti-anxiety drugs now.
breathing happened.
she lost you.
what else is new.
she is played with well now. she respects him, but it doesn't take away from the pain. it distracts from the pain.
and for that
she lets him feel her
because she's real.
--
distraction isn't evil.
"the thing I ..."
"the play's the thing!" he countered
"the thing I take from this," she emphacized, "is that I would poke daggers in your ego if I knew you were performing for me - if you were being fake - giving me what I want to hear - or acting on faulty programming."
she paused
"but, it's what I do."
"Oh come here and fuck me you little hypocrite."
"Can we call it making love"
"just this thousandth time..."
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