Letter: #7

If I break my body, will you seep out through the open-wounds?

God, I couldn't tell you what I've done today. I have blisters on my blisters, the sores that I picked open earlier today reopened and started bleeding again. I did 10km and my knees were sucking up oxygen left over by the homeless. Dry, wrinkled, dehydrated knees that only wanted to sit. I'm trying to break you out of me.

It's a way, and I've notice it works: if I put my body through enough strain, enough, enough: then I'm usually too selfishly absorbed in my own spilt blood to miss you. Where the f**k have you been? I can't make that eloquent. It's not eloquent anymore, this little danger zone we're paralleling. The flags are being hoisted up and still, you let me stew in my own waiting. I haven't even left the wake and already the isolation, days of hot, hard messes, are thrifting upon me like a monsoon. Where the f**k have you been? This is what I mean: this isn't beautiful. The sacrifice. The lies. And still you make it seem like child's play. And still it seems like your coy eyes are playing with my shy ones, I am leaking away at where the charge resides: that isn't beautiful. That is submission. When it's over, the game will end. You will to back to your w-life.

I realise this is public. Nobody but you will understand what I just did in the last sentence of the prior paragraph. Understand it. God, God, please. Lucifer - he can have all of me. What is left. I have time, lots of it - it is my only salvation. Time and driftwood, skipping along the beach. Hopefully, we will reach a better place. Time and drift, hand-in-hand. If Lucifer can get me there, he can have what is left. I don't want it anyway. I never did. Just You, the divine.

Yours,

Abbey