Lost Words.

Read my own life, in perfect English, hate it, hate it, hate it. Give it the worst reviews, I don’t expect a happy ending, I have grown up, but I want the story to make sense. No sudden hijacks, no slowly waning powers, no loss of control. Above all no loss of control.

What do I do with the gifts he leaves me? Words and stories, my two favourite things. Do I trade him my soul for them? Is a broken soul worthy?

“You broke it,” I tell him. He smiles, “and quite well, if I dare say so myself.” He calls for wine, he does like to drink, shivers, and demands that a fire be lit in the library. I remind him again that I can type or build fires but not at the same time.

The song comes roaring in, he closes his eyes in ecstasy. I cry like a child, powerless and fixed only on the song, on his face with his eyes closed, “what will it take to make you go away?”

“Is this how you speak to all your lovers?” He rises and lights a fire in the hearth. Deft hands, kindling, birch and spruce, he does not need a match. When it is blazing, he sits in my deep, comfortable chair and sighs. “I like this song,” he says, cupping his glass between his white hands.

You know the eternal link between suffering and beauty, why do you run from your pain?

“Let yourself fall, since you will anyway. Know your pains, from the very inside out, names are good, use them. Embrace them, running away takes valuable energy. Call yourself names even, madwoman that you are.”

He cannot stop smiling, he turns his black eyes to me for a brief second, “Whatever it looks like, however you feel it, never forget that I love you.”

This brief record of an intimate encounter will vanish, like all Scribal Discourse.

It will reappear at my whim.