Somewhere in that thankful moment where by contrast I am made aware of what I have to lose, and I make the decision to close my eyes and rest against that shoulder, pray there quietly to whatever god resides therein.
I do wonder sometimes if that reeling gypsy dancing naked, breasts in mirror multiplied is me.
That dark eyed painted lady, pockets full of golden coins that will be stones tomorrow.
But I am gutted when the red shoes come off. When morning comes and I am still in the same clothes. When I wake up in filth and the knots begin to form, and I long for a comfort so small as to have been impossible to see without these new eyes.
Do I misbehave to make this settling a mercy? My wolves would argue that I am not misbehaving, that this is Woman in her glory and that our religion is our sex, our unrelenting middle finger to every oppression save one; the way we hurt ourselves.
I am not at home here. I wonder if there is a place where these halves of me fuse together and make sense of the whole. The excesses trimmed off, and the concentrated center accepted. I can't believe I live in a society that has driven me (and others like me) to this sort of life.
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