Invisible Strings

I held that little girl in my arms, and told her a story about unicorns and candy canes.

She looked up at me and said she was scared. She asked what it was like to lose my virginity.

I looked into her gray eyes and said, "Holding hands, it's better."

We cried together and I told her to focus on breathing. 

"You're ok. We're ok." 

repeating. repeated.

I didn't know if she was dying or I was. 

I believed my project to be a life in revolt against convention, conditioning, normalcy. 

Impulsive unapologetic behavior. 

The girl who fell in the middle of a crowded room. 

The one who took shot after shot raging against something she couldn't name.

Destruction was active deconstruction. Because we can't know who we are unless we know who we're not. well, yeah, what a load of shit. 

Destruction isn't a beautiful metaphor for anything, it's just destruction. 

A broken arm isn't abstract. A busted lip isn't a war wound. Waking up on the floor, in the rain, under trees, in bushes, under beds, beside pools, in bathtubs,in the middle of an abandoned field, these aren't adventures. 

It isn't fun anymore.

I was holding the girl and we were walking along an unfamiliar road. She felt heavy in my arms. She wrapped her arms around my neck and told me she was cold. I told her we'd get somewhere soon.

I had no idea where we were going. 

I woke up a few minutes before my alarm was set to go off. I got out of bed and took a hot shower. Got dressed, combed my hair, drove to work. All day I thought about how I had disappointed the little girl who never existed.