It hurts like a twist of a blunt scalpel wedged deeply within my broken ribs, this. The bitterest sensation of not having it all to myself. Not keeping it as my decadent secret locked away. Not being able to catch my own fairy in a glass jar. But then again, I suppose it cannot be called a fair game if I don’t collide with the oncoming moon and leave a gaping hollow crater on the playing board, in order to get severely damaged. I can only pray for redemption silently, as I find myself rousing once again under the maelstrom of dust devils that even the most tantrumed nonexistent winds from the atmosphereless astral body cannot disperse of. The remorse that comes with the dice roll comes so naturally, it’s almost selfish. Almost conscientiously demeaning. Almost guilt-inducing. Almost.
Because despite all the elsewhere tragedies that have gracelessly transpired, lacerating me with scars under my tongue and at the back of my hands, I simply won’t bleed diamonds from my wrist from foolish emotional distraught; rather, I shall forge an envious solidarity of the toughest steel element and hope within my frazzled nerves fervently that someday, God looks away. There is no reason to grieve, no reason to stain my pillowcase with rain, no reason to be asinine against the inevitable. I have the better set of cards in this shuffled deck. For they may weep for the dawn and admire the sunset, but I will always have the sun to myself, no matter the point of day and weather. That much, I can keep my faith on.