She is stuck in the wrong version of the past.
She has cornered herself into believing you can’t
teach the flesh not to want what it knows isn’t
good for you. She tempts fate and sleeps with
perdition. She throws herself into every way she
can destroy herself and squander the future. She
creates lives just to kill them, slowly. For they all
have his face, and she blames him for everything.
She loves him in the way that you can be fatally
bound to a beautiful mistake, the kind that makes
self-love and self-loathing appear interchangeable.
She comes every time he calls, and calls him her
own, and spits in the face of the parts of him that
can’t belong to her, in her quest to hurt all that is
innocent, because nothing and nobody that isn’t
as soiled and as broken as she is deserves a place.
And she will draw them all out, angry and bitter,
and face them, defiantly and proudly guilty of all
they accuse her of, mock their pain and make dark,
twisted trophies of their splintered lives, get drunk
on the curses they hurl at her like long-term poison,
because this is the end game for her. She is in hell,
but she is not done sinning, against her soul or
against her body. She made one bad choice and,
as a consequence, she would punish the world by
making all other bad choices she can think of, and
with each step she takes on that damned road,
there is less and less of her left to save. Until the
world feels sorry enough to kindly turn back the
clock for her. And restore to her what she threw
away back when her body was free and she could
take any heart she picked.
“Ballerina” by photographer Bogdan Grigore