Modern Eve

If one day he touched the stars through her breath, he would you see her. Hold her. Love her. How dully dramatic. Sickeningly sweet. You poor child. Voice in me. Rip out my heart, that I might have peace. For quiet is never mine to hold. I do not understand. And I want it to be done. I want it stop. I want him to see, someone to see. I want to be more than just me. Longing that fills my soul, consuming and burning, a pit of despair in overwhelming hope. How contrary and silly. I want it to end. Be numb and be strong. For only loss awaits. He does not exist. That man, that boy, that being, that other half who just is. That completion and fulfillment through another. For what have I held this flame, but for the vigil of a saint that has no substance? For what have I pined and fell and cried? Stupid girl. Stupidly dreaming. I hope you die alone for your pitiful whine, your useless simpering need. It will never be filled, you know. I know. But how I desire it, that touch. And at the thought, the base of my throat spasms, tugging strings at the seat of my spine, tightening muscles at the center of where such passion reverberates to fill the body with serene comfort and content. Carnal coitus, ecstasy, connection… stability. Look up at the stars, and see your own breath. And know that you are alone, girl. I am alone, a girl. Rip out the heart. Ignore it, black out, white out. The stars always glimmer. Put it down child, that dream. And Save. Stone. Steel. Your Self. Goodnight Eve.