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It's the kind of contact that costs something. There's nothing unconditional about it. There's no infinite ocean of love that's beating in the core of a heart owned by someone's whose eyes shine with happiness. It's quid pro quo, and you get a little for giving a little. But what's it all worth if skin against skin burns like red hot metal and the solution costs more than you ever got from it. Bought stamina doesn't last quite as long as when you've trained yourself to be able to endure more and changing the approach won't change anything because you'll always be out of breath when you're done. You'll always be gasping for air and feeling like someone is jabbing a spear into your side. Maybe even a little higher than your side. Pointed right at the middle. A little more towards the part where the tattoo that means nothing at all is planted covering a body part that's beating so hard under all the scar tissue trying to keep you running. Keep you alive. Beating so hard in an attempt to get rid of the poison that's killing you. But maybe the poison isn't nearly as dangerous as one might think. Maybe in small doses, it works like a painkiller. Like something that's dulling everything that's bubbling up right under the surface. Maybe it's a way to make sure that your lungs can still expand as they long for that feeling of poison that you can't stop wanting. The feeling that sits like splotches in your mind almost as white as the virgin snow. Like the light, that's blinding you daily as you lie on the bed staring up onto the ceiling. | ||||||||||||||
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