You don’t love me. You do not know when every word you say is as a screw drilled into my brain, when I am racked to my limit: being stretched till my skin tares. Now to save myself I must do something, my instinct fires at the base of my brain. Signals dance back and forth and chemicals eject with fury — I must do something, so I fight. I anger, I rage. You hold it against me when it was you who brought us here, knowingly, you brought us here. You don’t love me, why would you bring us here.
Writing saves me. When I write I am alone with what I am and nothing to judge, but trying to express what I want to say, dancing through my thoughts, touching this one, and feeling that one. The meaning of words hover. The structure of the composed lingers and longs to be played with: to be perfected. Where is this perfection? it teases and hides from the mind, but not so far away that its lingering smell is lost.