Thursday, November 11, 2004


She loves me. I love her. She doesn’t seem to like who I am. She wants me to live within the box she has built for herself. That box is far too small for her. She outgrow it years ago. How does she expect me to live in there with her? I don’t demand that she leave her box, but I open the way for her escape. She really likes staying in the box. I invite her out of the box. She takes a step, then two. When I turn my attention away, she leaps back in, like she is pulled by a mighty spring (yet, no spring exists).
She came out of that box when we were getting to know each other, exploring each other. She explored her surroundings, and was happy, excited. The instant we became official, she hopped right into it, and tried to coax me in with her. I’m not going. My spirit is not as free as some, but it is way too free to be held to such a small place.
I don’t care that she is in there. I love her for who she is. I care that she’s expecting me to cram myself in to that box with her. That is hurtful. I’ve been nothing but straightforward about who I am. She knows I like it out here. She lied. She pretended. Yet, it wasn’t pretending. She is the person I fell in love with, yet she doesn’t know it. When she is outside the box, she is happy, she glows. When she snaps back in, she hunches and moans with cramped discomfort. I soothe her soreness with tender care and without judgement. She grabs for my collar, a shirt tail, a pocket or anything just to hold me, to yank me in with her. Dirty tricks.
I love her. She loves me. We…

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