ahendrix
Recovery is looming. Doesn't that sound menacing? At this very moment, letting go, surrendering to recovery, looms. looooooooms. It IS scary. I don't know if I can let my empty alone future loom, either.
My mama is a planter. Of seeds and doubts. Of tomatoes and subtle criticisms. She bought me a planter so I could grow my own. Nothing tastes quite like tomatoes and criticisms that you grow all by yourself.
This is the end of the game. You got me. I got you? Probably you win. You always do. Checkmate. The game is over, the playing like I love you and am ok with the way you treat me. Checkmate. The diet of secrets is done and fantasizing about the pawns (queens?) I can't have is over.
I sit in a cafe. Totally free. It's 5, or 3 pm. And it's snowing out. I'm having a macchiatto or a cappucino for once, instead of my usual black with a guilt-ridden splash of half and half. Cafes are for my new romance that I am open to and not hostile toward. My cappucino is drunk slowly. I am free in this cafe. At 4:12 pm.