Undated.

Oh my love, whose eyes/voice/shoulders/hands/etc make me weak in the knees, you're no good for me but that's never stopped me before. I can't write I can't sleep I can't eat I can't work for the terrible burning inside me and I know what you'll say, that I should have known better and you're probably right, in fact I know you are which is why my pride is fluttering behind me in a million pieces, dancing on the breeze and taunting me. I thought I was impervious to this sort of thing, that I was untouchable and could never be brought back down to earth but then you caught me by the tail and reminded me of gravity and my mortal soul. I don't know whether to punch you or thank you. Maybe both.

Since doing either would require an honesty and drop of facade however momentary I'll just quietly repose on pins and needles, like some ersatz Olympia without the servant or flowers or scores of suitors. This isn't the end of me but oh it hurts, completely against my will. I start to wonder if this is what I've done to others in my blissful stage of utter freedom and all I can do is ask karma for mercy and forgiveness. I don't want to learn, I don't want this to be a lesson to me, I don't even necessarily want the burn to stop burning because, you know, in spite of everything,

it
reminds
me
that
my
heart
is
still
alive.