and when her feelings bloat like a victory song and a funeral march and smite like passion, you know all that wondering is over. the period of mourning by the corner unattended and alone, the cocktail of jealousy poisoned with self conciousness. she can forget the fear, if she tried.
sometimes trying is the hardest part.
she plans and conceive and drives herself mad with minefields of what ifs. and then tired and defeated she retreats back into the corner with guts tucked behind her ears.
then, just then when her resolve falters and she acknowledges failure, it speaks and she is caught unawares. her heart catches and the stick like mucus to her throat. she is the deer in the headlights.
she doesn't understand of course, why light has such a hyponotic hold over her. light and darkness dance across, playing shadows like demons across her torso. frozen, like a deer in headlights.
and when she wakes up the next morning she wouldn't remember. it would have past like a dream even for the seven hundred and sixty and half days she stood there as the floodlights maimed her in ways only she only understood after a time. her feelings like a victory song, a funeral march, merge in chorus.
