Unscripted. Unedited. Real.
Writing for five minutes.
A sort of writing flash mob.
Again, it happens.
First, his words.
Then, my inward wince and the inevitable tug on the one loose thread that dangles in my periphery.
I struggle to keep it steady, that thread. I will it to stay connected in all the right places, feeling its pulsing connection with the garment wrapped tightly round my heart. Knowing that one good pull will begin a great unraveling and soon my heart won't be the only thing naked on the floor.
And, again, I choose wrongly.
For some days, no amount of teeth clenching or deep-breath-taking or willing.it.away... can stop the torrent of vitriol that spills from my mouth. And in a blink, the thread lies in a pool and its shapeless form mirrors my heart space.
Again, I have failed him.
And eyes become shimmering pools and faces blur and why can't I err more on the side of grace and less on that of spoil?
And everyone just wants a do over.