Phase I: I screamed and twisted and cursed the night in your name--scratch that--with your name. I cursed it for existing, for reminding me that we existed, for allowing such a dark, raven-winged hue to continue existing past the point of helpless, pitiful cries that my mother hesitated to interrupt. She didn't want to be caught in the crossfire of our relationship. Neither did I. Phase II: I walked numb to the world, numb to the linking of words that people requested of me. The questions of us and what our label was, what words we attached to each other was a pounding, throbbing hangover in the middle of a summer's day. More painful because I couldn't make myself stop drinking you and the little things you gave me. I would drown myself in you if you'd let me. Phase III: I spent the summer months away and I met a nice guy. He speaks with such emotion, or maybe it's just a faint form of understanding. I wonder sometimes what happened to my shadow and if it still dances with yours at night. They were intertwined from the beginning. I know that much to be true, even if the rest turns out to be moon dust and star shimmer.
3 phases of writing about you
