There is a deep silence in my life.
I’m afraid of what it might say. What fulfilment it may drive me to pursue. Being happy on my own is more unconventional and frightening than.. well, the rest. Maybe less than jumping into a relationship now. I don’t trust men, nor that I can go near any without falling in love with them and filling my life with their cocks and problems.
I was never filled by them and I knew it.
I felt a wildness growing days ago. The day was colder; a winter that would last one day. My hair was half in a bun and I was in a large, faux military jacket of my brother’s. A silence was increasing. In the cracks of a chai latte in the city with Mum and her boyfriend, silence told me I was alone. Not yet lonely, but leaning away from it anyway.
The unknowableness purrs only at those I already love. There is an assured silence to the greeting of those who would know me. They might only know me if they saw me upon a rock by the moon, and yet still they would only witness a mystery. A cliché, a dream to fall in love with.
The cooler air and abandoned spaces echoed what is inside. The echo of spaces that are no longer filled with him, with anyone and so are free. I worship the abandon of him, while defending it with terror, that it’s creation; that the reverent wound craves like rabies for the tending of man. The HE would kill my precious loneliness.
This is a line of sadness in the joy. Like a blue vein of undigested sea in the blood.