I feel nothing - a nothingness composed of all the flickers that disappear too quickly to register as a Something. December was a month of hell, overwork, stress and shell-shocked vanity run amok. And even in such blistering days I found something worth fighting for, someone worth writing for. But he is not for me, Time and Fate will tear us apart as surely as wrapping paper is torn to shreds on Christmas morn.
Foolish as I am, I allowed myself to pretend that I scratched his heart when we lay there in each others' arms, exchanging tender kisses and smiles. I ripped myself open so that I could feel his arms snaking around me, his head resting on my chest. And now he is gone and I am gone and I am slowly puncturing holes along the edges of the wound, lacing them up with sinew woven from tears, a rough seam to protect my ravaged heart from the world. Summer love is a fragrant fancy, but the comfortable coze of winter kisses leaves behind far greater destruction in its wake.
I rang in the new year with my kin and my lips remained untouched and chapped from cold and champagne. My birthday came and went, made pleasant by its peace and tranquility, and I returned to college, my last semester as an undergraduate.
My head droops upon the pillow, I long to be off this Catherine wheel of guilt and shame, and every time I think of him my cheeks flush. His heart does not belong to me, for his demons taunt and howl, and he must slay them quickly lest they destroy him.
No grandfather clock guards my hall, I hear no chime to ring the hour. A second may become a year as surely as thistles may bear figs, and I am lost in a sandstorm of wretchedness. I cling desperately to my career: the drive and ambition will serve me well and give me something to strive for.
That we had more words for love! What we felt was neither love nor lust, more true than like, less formal than romance, and too bitter to be sweet. His touch burned my skin and his voice still rings within my ears, and I wish to drag it out because I know he loves me not and to remember the tenderness of his touch with no hope of its return is more painful than I care to say.
Down with the children! Do them in! Hash them, mash them, boil their skins!
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