Without My Wounds, Who Was I? My

She Was Starting To Think There Might Be Such A Thing As Karma - That Repetition - Maybe You Lived Through The Same Thing Over And Over Until You Stopped Caring. Maybe Eventually It Got Less Intense, Until It Was Just Nothing.

I Felt Suddenly Cruel, Like I´d Told Dmall Children There Was No Tooth Fairy, That It Was Just Their Mom Sneaking Into Their Room After They Went To Bed.

That Kind Of Tenderness Couldn't Be Permitted To Last. You Only Got A Taste, Enough To Know What Perfection Meant, And Then You Paid For It The Rest Of Your Life. Like The Guy Chained To A Rock, Who Stole Fire. The Gods Made An Eagle Eat His Liver For All Eternity. You Paid For Every Second Of Beauty You Managed To Steal.

It Was Her First Book, An Indigo Cover With A Silver Moonflower, An Art Nouveau Flower, I Traced My Finger Along The Silver Line Like Smoke, Whiplash Curves. ... I Touched The Pages Her Hands Touched, I Pressed Them To My Lips, The Soft Thick Old Paper, Yellow Now, Fragile As Skin. I Stuck My Nose Between The Bindings And Smelled All The Readings She Had Given, The Smell Of Unfiltered Cigarettes And The Espresso Machine, Beaches And Incense And Whispered Words In The Night. I Could Hear Her Voice Rising From The Pages. The Cover Curled Outward Like Sails.

The Cake Had A Trick Candle That Wouldn't Go Out, So I Didn't Get My Wish. Which Was Just That It Would Always Be Like This, That My Life Could Be A Party Just For Me.