Me telling myself these gentle truths, whispered in intimacy of late night wakefulness.
Me telling the world which is the same thing really, just me, admitting to dark places and the audience in shadow, an amorphous blur of almost-faces, just a sea of dissacociated ears, on an endless tide.
Me telling you, which is intollerable and addictive at the same time. I read back through the collective Furious Vaginas and I have been banging on for so long about you that it is beyond embarassing.
I dislike myself. I weigh myself up against your other friends, the new brash sexy thing, the quiet flower, the intellectual, the one that stole your heart, and I step away. I will not compete. This is my nature. But I have some of you in me now, a viral duplication of ideas. I have your voice which I have stolen and a few precious memories, transcripts of conversations where you are perfectly behaved and I am not.
I will continue to communicate with you through the work. I will not deny myself the stories that sit in my life like something precious and multi-faceted. But I am closing up again. Not like a flower, but like a shellfish pulled tight in her ugly carapace. Here in this unnatractive package I am safe. I stare at the world angrily, anticipating conflict. I have stopped believing in love, all of a sudden, anenome-like. Snapped shut. Going, going, gone.