the releasement

June 17, 2011

I wish I could shake you off, out of my gloves like sand. Out of my hands, out of my reach, out. Go.

Go, my dear. I could have loved you, even though I would have forbidden myself; I could have loved you, even though it was unnecessary. Even though it would have been as spectacular as the collision between Mercury and Mars, stars rictusing apart in slow motion, a silent fall of daggers and light caught a hundred lightyears away, shown when we’re old. Old. I am too old for this. For you.

I am not all that old, but time creeps forwards on hands like small knives, fingers digging in the sand. Crabwise, your claws are showing, time, on the wet beach, my lungs beneath your scissored delicate hands, picking me up to take me one by one to pieces apart.

I am twenty-two.

I will draw circles in the wet grains with a foot, with a stick, with a bare palm. Do not enter. I will close the gaps. I will say, this is the barren lands where small crustaceans plant their seeds, and that is all. Their children leave to go to the sea. It is too far. They will die on the way. You will die if you take my heart with you.

So leave it here, wrapped in a circle of sleep, Brynhildr watching herself with the doomed song in her head. Do not cross the flames. Do me a favour. Let me go. Let me go. Go.

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