She is drawn into the screen, an insect to a white light. But it is empty. She lies on her side, curling up like burning paper and crumbling into frail ash.
This is my place
Where I go to scream
And be swallowed by the black trees
I feel I am reaching out into the blackness. And I am as likely to reach someone as I am to reach across the galaxy and touch a star
…while I am cleaning the saucepan I splash water drops onto my arm and pretend it’s hot oil burning me. Everything is safe when we pretend.
The thing is
We push them away because we no longer need them. Or maybe because we feel things growing thinner, more stretched. There have been too many false starts, too many disappointments. Too many empty boxes tied with pretty ribbon.
But as soon as we push them away we yearn to pull them back again. To ease the pain. The pain we just caused. To become free, everyone must suffer.
We do not live in a perfect world and it is foresighted and useful for a young woman to become proficient in those arts which will keep a weak-willed man from straying. Learning to cook is also useful.