I've had the superlative romantic turmoil packed into the last week. Hm, maybe turmoil fails to summarize . . . desolation? A hailstorm of heartbreak? The concupiscent catastrophe, a gentle hand that methodically scattered everything inside of me.
Death and rebirth . . . and death, and rebirth, and death, and the whole cycle of samsara embodied in a series of bad choices and great kisses. If I'm vague, it's only because I'm sick of telling the story. Even if my girl-on-girl (-on-girl) drama is a bit out of the ordinary, there's no profit in the account of it.
There's no profit to be made in any of this, really. I don't know if I'm writing to give an accounting of my feelings, or just to vent. The empty bed stings more when it's king-sized. I want to go read Anne Sexton poems and do deliriants and cease to be a person. I want to be freed from myself, from this apartment I share with her, from this life I'm quickly becoming far too tired to lead.
I'm tired of women, scared of their eyes, no matter how wonderful a soft arm cradles my head. I can't easily find a world where I feel safe trying to date other women without having my belief in myself ground down. I find something curious in the touch of a man. But how frightening a man is; how many precautions a woman must take. I worry of becoming some political lesbian, fear and politics informing her desires.
I need to detox from love. Sweat out all the oxytocin, drink bad coffee in a church while I admit how very powerless I am in the face of an emotion so vast and devastating.
I'm going to go to sleep so I can get up in time for my girlfriend to break up with me.
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