I’m taking a break. I need to place my focus inward and find Spirit there. I need to write more personal things too. I’m beginning to write the story of me.
Its prelude goes something like this:
Love crosses a no-man’s-land with both hands up. It doesn’t matter who’s involved; every caress leaves a scar if you’ve got the eyes for it, as every touch disturbs atoms, molecules, cells. When you are a lover you give like a wound. When you’re a child you’re mostly lungs, expecting everything to come as quickly as the air, and when you’re too young to know you’re a self at all, you’re a solider who can’t tell a bullet from a kiss. Some kisses are bullets indeed.
And oh, how I wanted to be shot.
What does that make me? Soldiers aren’t called victims. Perhaps if they were, they’d be called murderers too.
I was young.
Where Spirit Stops 