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Can be savage, can be wild. Can be tepid, can be mild.

Show me your secrets.
Show me your needs.
Show me your heart and what makes it bleed.

Pressure, put on the pressure. The closeness erodes all reasoning.

Such strong-willed creatures become nothing but sand, nothing but smooth silk in a calloused hand.

Do you like this? Do you like this?
The savage and the wild?
Does it scare you? Do you want it to end? Do you long for the tepid and mild?

You have shown me. Layers fall before widened eyes.
I can’t hear. I can’t cry. Layers fall before widened eyes.

Lay down, lay down, please.

Relax, relax.


I will not tell you what it means.

You know what you want it to be.

A satisfactory event,
a discovery.

Strained to meet and to touch. Desire drives your wild heart to hunger! To wicked, angry pain!

To a desolate place of flickering ashes and loneliness.

Endless grasping over empty promises. Delicate whispers and unfulfilled duties.


We must decimate the walls now. We must dislocate the comfortable bones.

I want to tear away the iridescent lies that say it is all this way and that “this way” is really okay.

Trapped under Fifteen-Hundred layers of agony.

Suffocating under One-Million tons of someone else’s choices for me.

What they wanted, what they thought I could give, and give, and give. Was it ever a consideration if I would live?

And now, trapped inside my head, I am screaming and running. I am thrashing and falling down slopes that end in cliffs that end in rapids with sharpened boulders beneath them.

So in breathless ways and in labored, painful ways, I have begun to learn how to hold other things.

Things that are more than what I felt and what I feel.

I have to reconcile with what is; I have to reconcile with what’s real:

I was never tepid and mild, and that may have helped me if I were. But, then again, maybe it wouldn’t have.

I was not and am not afraid, but I maybe should have been. Maybe I should be. But I’m not.

I lay down and get up again, and again, and again I do it. I do it. I lay down, and I get up; I do it.

When I get slashed open by the sharpened boulders after I’ve fallen from the cliff after I’ve slid down the hill,

after I’ve been handled like silk in calloused hands, I appear again on the shore. It starts again.
I keep looking for a way that avoids the cliffs. I keep looking for this way; I keep knowing that I’ll find it. One day.

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