jueves, 12 de junio de 2014

Of werewolves and survival

It's somewhere deep inside my mind, lurking in the shadows, eating at my resolve. "You are nothing but a dark pit I spent too many years trying to climb out. I'm not going to let you drag me back down," the one guy says. A noncommittal shrug and back to square one. We've been dancing around each other for too long. You go, I follow. I go, you follow. I go, I kill you, I try. I disappear, you smoke me out of my hiding place. I kill you once and for good, except... not quite. You always come back to drag me in your bog of eternal stench.

I dance around some more. Try to forget how you said you were the one, while Brian tiresomely said that it didn't really matter. He was the king of the alley (mama) and I kissed his breath away right there. A dance pole, a greaser and the winehouse. Which brings me (fuck chaotic mental connections) to the current predicament I'm in, because man, I was ok, and then this woman has to come and tell me that there might still be more to this, that the water fountain is not sucked dry, just tainted. That the gravity never goes, even if one loses interest. If one loses count of the times one lost interest.

It never matters, because as I said, this time I killed you for good. I've grown a spine tougher than steel and roots the size of California and this time you can't sway me. I breathe your poison before it even gets here. I answer the phone. I let you go.

(Until the next time you come knocking to my doorstep, like a freaking elephant in a glass house (that sinks ships))

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