  I remember the day I died. Not died like "the end" or more so than a doornail, but like death to become a new life.
Like Jesus, though I would never presume to make my resurrection the salvation of the world. The Fates have cut my thread in several places, only to spin the shards of wool into a single yarn again. Thus I have lived many lives, some of which are not mine to live. The voice ... a paradox {or a lie} in of itself, had become my comfort food, and I yearned for it. It was a comfort food like the most searingly hot mexican chile. That was why... Because we had no truth, Everything we were to each other was a lie, and I hate{ed} lies. {don't lie to me. } You love someone for the little things you know. But the silence grows between us like an irridescent bubble.
When it pops, all that will be left will be space, and silence. "In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow. He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom. " ~Two Views of a Cadaver Room, Sylvia Plath. "What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis; Horses fluent in the wind, a place, a time gone out of mind. " ~ The Eye-mote, Sylvia Plath {from: The Colossus and other poems.
} 
