I can’t write from the gut unless it’s spontaneously. Never let myself think too much about the phrasing and just charge in unprepared like a child with a gun thrust into his hands and told to shoot if he wants to survive. This is warfare, the kind birthed from new thoughts and no direction and I’m just the instrument to get the job done. I can’t imagine what it’s like any other way. Too much thought muddles every little thing. If I think too much, I can think my way out of anything. I can think my way out of opportunity, longing, lust, love, and you. It’s devastatingly easy, and I’m better at it than anyone you know or haven’t met yet. I’ve never wanted something I couldn’t live without or let go. This is what we call survival. I can untie the strings that bind us and while the marks might remain against pale flesh, they won’t be there forever, and that is a comfort to me.
What am I waiting for? I can’t tell yet. I used to think I was waiting for someone or something to tame me, to break me, to make it so I needed someone but that’s not it. Someone to keep up with me? That’s more likely. Someone to make me feel something real, something deep. Everyone says love is like something gentle and beautiful, but I see love as a fire. It burns and will consumes entirely. It will eat you alive, and leave raised scars of knotted flesh that will never heal long after it’s gone. I haven’t been burned yet. Some people translate that into being lucky. I always assume it’s more tragic than anything else. I’m the girl who doesn’t feel. I wouldn’t know a scar against my skin even if I saw it in the mirror. I’d just think it was part of my face.
