I wake and it hits me, not hot or cold, just there, pressing
on m chest and groin, I struggle to breathe.
How do we love this away, born each day bearing the same
burden, the constant urge, the irresistible temptation, the struggle to
overcome what we generate inside, love, an illusion we hang on to in order to
decorate something we wish for rather than anything real, the roughness of it,
rubbing against us each time we move until it rubs us raw. We stagger with it
all day, sleep with it all night, waking again elevated, needing to appease it,
stroke by stroke, a remedy that works for so brief a time we forget we had
relief at all, until it overwhelms us again, we lion tamers without chair or
whip to keep back the inevitable.
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