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Dec. 18th, 2002 10:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enteleinIn the low lamplight of the bedroom, the night seems small and close and lonely. The alarm clock glowing red on the floor of the next room, the floorboards cool, but not cold. The sounds of rain and of traffic and of murmuring women walking past the window, the occasional loud kid, the screaming baby from next door.
Low light and quiet breathing to soothe the near-constant headache of the past few days. Frozen strawberries, grabbed from a bag in the freezer, warmed up against lips before digging front teeth in, sweet softness and red stains on fingers. This doesn't happen with fresh strawberries, no.
Everything's different, even though my gaze is still steady in the mirror, even though there are boxes with my usual life packed into them, still awaiting daylight.
I am toeing the line, and I am so afraid, so exhilirated. I am feeling a sweet burn, like a spoonful of crystallized honey, scraping and warming and sweetening my tongue, my throat, my words, my intentions. I feel slightly raw.
Honeyed fear.
This morning, it was raining. This building is creaking and swaying, a monstrosity of architecture and stability. It is giving with the wind, and it is holding itself true to its form. Unforgiving yielding.
I don't want those straight lines and that pragmatic rigidity, but I am not sure as how I have a choice right now. I could cave, but this structure, this foundation, it is not just made up of me.
Mostly, I want to go home, and I want to crawl into my bed, and I want to feel the cold against my teeth, and I want to watch the daylight recede, over and over and over and
Low light and quiet breathing to soothe the near-constant headache of the past few days. Frozen strawberries, grabbed from a bag in the freezer, warmed up against lips before digging front teeth in, sweet softness and red stains on fingers. This doesn't happen with fresh strawberries, no.
Everything's different, even though my gaze is still steady in the mirror, even though there are boxes with my usual life packed into them, still awaiting daylight.
I am toeing the line, and I am so afraid, so exhilirated. I am feeling a sweet burn, like a spoonful of crystallized honey, scraping and warming and sweetening my tongue, my throat, my words, my intentions. I feel slightly raw.
Honeyed fear.
This morning, it was raining. This building is creaking and swaying, a monstrosity of architecture and stability. It is giving with the wind, and it is holding itself true to its form. Unforgiving yielding.
I don't want those straight lines and that pragmatic rigidity, but I am not sure as how I have a choice right now. I could cave, but this structure, this foundation, it is not just made up of me.
Mostly, I want to go home, and I want to crawl into my bed, and I want to feel the cold against my teeth, and I want to watch the daylight recede, over and over and over and
