And then one day I feel something, silver-new and dissonant. It takes time, years, until I can name it for what it is – the hot-cold edge of a blade balanced on the back of my neck, ready to sever this half-life should I dare to shift against its pressures.
Perhaps you know the feeling, the ever leeching shallow wound of threat and exterior expectation, the sick and steely sharpness of good intentions against the tender flesh. Through these seemingly slight sufferings the soul can drain away and away and away.
Today I'm writing over at Secret Rebel Club!