a grieving man who'd lost his dear girl wondered what we'd all like the dying one to tell the next. clearly in a perfect world of no hurt and honest acceptance of the inevitable. not to mention loving another more than one's self.
someone whom i admire very much offered this (her husband committed suicide while she was pregnant):
As for me, I wish he could have told those to come, "Don't believe her when she says she's not a masochist. She is, and she'll hurt herself worse than you ever could."
it made me crumple and cry. awfully.
the resonance of how hard i am on myself; the wall i continue to erect, all the while aching for closeness; the abject loneliness of nights and mornings when i just want long arms and legs surrounding me; the stingy grasp i keep on my heart.
the mascara smeared sobs of fucking now.
the editor has been tender and cruel. offered me degradation and safety. he challenges me and makes me laugh. he accepts me and is amazed by me. he wants all of me but knows he can only have what i'll give.
i find myself wondering what i would do if he demanded more. i *think* i would feel relieved, and just give it. but i *know* he wouldn't dare. not yet.
i realize i still don't quite know how to do this.
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