Thursday, July 2, 2009

Stacked with slick organs, I try to keep them all at once.


My fear lacks romance. It isn't fear of destruction, consummation, devouring. Those fears are ecstatic, vulnerable fears. They have desire in them that hurtles toward their subject, where mine comes from some white-knuckled refusal. That in forgetting I will forget. That, letting go of something so long gone, I'll change into a devil made of a voice not my own. That it simply won't ever cut so deep, not even for me. Or worse, that I don't want it to. Out of fear I preserve the deepest wettest red for what I love. My fear does not lack romance.



These were taken a couple of minutes apart.

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