His voice holds me. His words unravel me. And the trouble is the unraveling, the undoing, the blurring continue long after the voice has gone silent, the line cold. Because words, they linger. Burning flesh wounds inside defenses. And everything else feels harder, sharper, steelier. I am in a world of red. So I force order into my breathing, calm into my speaking, paint onto my face.
And I am blue.
It is a fight, yes it is a fight. It could be foreplay but why, I ask, why. This is life, they say. On this, I disagree. I do not choose the daily sandpapering of the soul with this mediocrity. I do not choose the self-mutilation people call romance & someone who makes them feel. I feel quite well, on my own, thank you.
I choose blue.
Each thing is a lesson, even the bumps & nicks. And the bandages & swathes. Maybe you cannot be pure until you’ve been dirty. And with living, that means bloody. So let it bleed, let it clot, let it scab, let it fall. I will pass through. And if I survive, how will it matter if it’s not unscathed.