What do you do when you don’t know what needs to be done? When he’s been there before and understands but you can’t even scream for his help because he won’t hear you & you can’t face what’s been done.
Where do you go when you don’t know the way, you don’t have directions and there’s nothing at your fingertips to navigate you home?
How can you continue when every bone in your body, your muscles and every single brain cell has retreated to dormancy?
Everything is topsy turvy in a moment’s notice and you go from planning your last move for that king to picking your game pieces out of the gutter.
You can only take so much before your pretty little doll face cracks, but once it’s broken, what can you take to mend it? What hospital exists that can repair massive, painful, unseen holes in your heart?
How can you expect a fairytale ending when it all began as nonfiction?
What can Prince charming do if he can’t get to your heart because you can’t get it back from someone else and that someone else still holds it for ransom? Once the clock strikes midnight, seductive evils surround you and you’re sucked into the irresistible hands of darkness, what can the dim, peeking light from your fairy godmother’s wand do? Not even the fairy tales, that once saved you from harsh reality, have any power. For those same tales left your innocence in harm’s way to begin with.
You are lost in a world farther than translation, where the very meaning is undefined.
You wore your glasses and read the directions but you couldn’t see that the label on love is more complicated than you could understand. So you took your first taste from the bottle and have yet to loosen cupid’s grip. Even today, you are still drinking out of the same bottle but with different expectations, of course. You know despite what they say you’re not insane, you’re just addicted to that taste.
You need that high it sends you when someone looks your way and smiles. You need that moment when everything stops because he walked in and he didn’t have to. There are a million doors he could have opened but he chose this one. But the same reason you drink love’s poison, is the same reason you hate the very thought of love.
Just as quickly as he walked through that door and you walked through another with him and laid down that bottle. You picked it back up. Jumped out of a window. Sat it in another chair to wait on another door to open because you know that next taste is never as good as that first sip. But the next taste might be better than the sip you’ve just had.
So you have no choice but to keep sipping until you get to the bottom of the bottle. Your rationale is: if the first sip was that good, that wonderful, that compelling… the very last sip must be ten times better. That’s your picture perfect fantasy but in a painted and framed reality. You just want to finish the bottle to solve your problem. Because after you finish the bottle, there’s no reason to run. There’s no more sips so that him you see in that last instance of that last drop has to be THE him. The heavenly implanted miracle to erase every other him.
Hopefully you’re right. Otherwise you might OD, instead.