It’s not often I write fiction, but when I do, this is an example of the thoughts which pervade my mind.
I know what it looks like, in my head, this thing I call submission.
When I turn it to the light, it has many conflicting faces, but tonight, it wants my blood.
Tonight, it looks like pain.
The chill in the air,
fuelled by the consumptive fire of anger.
Both were hunter,
both were prey,
passion’s rage the anchor locking them together.
Disengaging from the ritual of resentment, time away needed.
Brooding, quietly, furiously, locking down emotions in order to protect.
Going through the motions, robotic routine.
Bathe, cleanse, letting the water purify.
It’s hard to cry beneath a liquid horizon.
Drying, defeated, resignation settling into the void.
Tiptoeing into a silent room,
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