Creative Writing, Personal

sweet poison

To wonder at a potential happiness experienced at the side of a competent companion… yes, it can be beautiful and full of laughter and attraction. But to ever expect such beauty to continue after the first accounts of such joy… Ah there’s the trick; that’s the penalty, perhaps, of indulging in so much joy, is that in the same speed it is alive, and being enjoyed, it slips away and vanishes out of any physical reality… except that which exists in your head, where a wrong kind of analysis processes the sadnesses, and outputs the same types of mistakes once again. The same caliber of joy becomes equated in sadness.

And after being knocked down, the moment you’re back on your feet, someone comes along and puts you through the whole process all over again.

Crawl. Walk. Run. Get pushed down, and start over again. Each time with new scars. Keep falling until you feel like the last scars had taught you how to avoid falling again. Believe them, too, while you’re walking, and running… and then the person who makes you feel like you’ve begun to fly… drops you. Sometimes they come down, hover above you, ask how your broken limbs are doing, as if these new open wounds weren’t their own fault. Then they fly away.

And time comes forward, you get back on your feet. New scars are etched onto all those hard-to-reach places.

Like drinking cups full of poison, one after the other, and swallowing them quickly because they taste so sweet.

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