.

Oh, my love, you know me.

I have never learned the art of being half.

When wrath finds me, I kill in cold blood anyone who dares steal my peace, anyone who lays a hand upon those under my protection. When desire consumes me, I fall at the feet of beautiful legs. I melt like a candle burning itself away before them. In war, I throw myself into the flames. In peace, I become the wax.

Upon the sand, I am quicksand.

Beneath the water, I surrender to the blue.

I do not know how.

I do not know.

I never have.

I tried to become half of myself. I wore every mask that might have made you return, or never leave at all, that might have led you to me, that might have let you find me through some impossible telepathy in this forsaken world.

Yet, when I am whole, I am alone.

Then let me be alone.

Only do not ask me to become almost.

Do not make me share a room with you, condemned to kiss your neck only in silence, to caress your body with nothing but my eyes.

Of all my flaws, I have never been half-hearted in my cruelty.

Of all my virtues, I have never been almost good.

I was never made for moderation.

I was made to burn completely, until nothing remains but the shell.

18th century engraving depicting a classical sculpture known as the Medici Wrestlers.

Dissertation sur les statues appartenantes a la fable de Niobé. 1779.

Edvard Munch, themes of isolation:

Woman on sea coast, 1888