everything.

It was pink. A pale shade the often lingered forgotten on the grass.
Until pale pink mixed with spots. Black and white. And pink. Again.
Her life was a circle. And she was happy. Everything. That’s all she wanted.

And she was under the illusion that was all that mattered. A happily ever after.

A child playing with spots.

“A square box,” she whispered to him rolling the ball from hand to hand. The words catching on her lips. “What?” he laughingly asked her with his eyes. “A box,” she told him again. That’s your present to me. This last part she thought to herself. She let him keep his laughing eyes. She let him think the world was perfect. Because it was. In so many ways. For him.

Inside she was a ball. A pale shade of pink. And spots. She was always the spots. Because that’s what was happy. That’s what she once was.

But not now. Not now. Alliteration makes a chant on darkest lips. She mimicked the sounds, let them caress her lips and then watched as he caught them on his own. He loved doing that. “You gave me your words,” he told her. “They were never my own,” her eyes told him. But he was elsewhere. Again.

And she was left with…

Four sides. “I’ve made them myself,” she told him with pride. Again he questioned her. “Hm?” All mine. She thought this again with a sense of accomplishment. Who else would wall themselves in? Polar bears. That’s when it began. And tears. Plenty of tears. But safety and spots. And silence. One side is silence, she thought.

“I’ve made them all.” One side is hurt. “It hurts,” she told him. And he kissed her gently. And his silhouette softly speaking in the silence did nothing to her. Another wall. And she thought of the wind. And she thought of him. On him she could go anywhere. “I’m running away,” she told her love as she gripped the horses sides with her legs. As she gave him a nudge, she heard her lover’s words follow her “You’re running into life, not from it.” And again a box. A box where a circle should be. A box with spots. A pale pink.

And life. What is this life? Is it more than hands gripping mane, than legs gripping power. Is it the hurt? Is it the search for more?

“Why do you love me? Explain our love. Write me a…”

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