Sunday, August 29, 2010


She sat up in bed upon the thought, "I never told him I loved him," and wondered when she began believing in love at all. Whether she believed in it or not, here it was... in the middle of the night. The fuckin butterflies meant she was alive. God damned butterflies. A slideshow of movie clips played in her head... Clips of suicide how tos. Writers were always so inventive when it came to carefully thinking out a suicide scene. She never could have been all as inventive as that on her own.

Later, in the chill of bloodletting in the mid-night warm bath, she decided she never did have to tell him because he had to already know. We all already knew, didn't we? About love and the certainty of death. We just all didn't live with the weight of it, the futility of fighting it - the disbelief in it; we all didn't breathe knowing the one couldn't exist without the contrary, disbelief without belief, every second of every day... Like she did. Did. She never told him, didn't have to tell him, because it always existed. She closed her eyes. The butterflies were finally gone.

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