disynthetic

Her whispers kiss my ear as if they were a gentle touch of tall grass in the breeze. To ignore my pleasure at such gentleness would be a great masochistic tragedy. To give in to her honeyed words and be seduced by her sweetness comes as a chilling thought to my warm body. Have my wits gone on holiday or am I merely intrigued with the way this woman easily slips past my defenses, the way she dodges coyly when I begin to distrust her? I am definitely attracted to dangerous women, and with that I should know she is a dangerous woman because I am attracted to her. I've lost my mind. Stillettos and switchblades sugar-dipped and offered as gifts. Gifts of a treacherous embrace. An entirely new predicament with all the archaeic complexity of a spider's web well describe this modern romance.

How did I get to this place? Once of a greater determination I would not have allowed myself to be manipulated or reduced to a plaything. No, I don't believe there is much face left to save from this. As if I could have expected to cut my losses and run, run from a beautiful name and bottomless eyes. And a sympathetic ear. I haven't had one of those in a very long time. A real human interest piece, to be sure. Whatever the price, it has already been paid only to be later revealed. Like Christmas long ago. Like pleasure derived from another's pain.

Swiftly and at long last, the treason wall comes crashing down when I tell her no more. I wish to no longer be falsely content, not wholely. My doubt is not unfounded and I do not hesitate to bid farewell to our time together for ever. I feel neither intrepid nor foolish as I walk out into the dimly-lit, rain-soaked night to pass my remaining hours in exile with my solidarity.

Well here's a toast to the loss of a mind. A fully imagined mind.