She wept and she wept. Never did she understand the gravity of weeping. Crying now seemed so trivial.
She didn’t fully understand what the point had been; where things were supposed to go; but she knew what had happened and she knew how her heart beat day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute knowing that he existed. And all he seemed to do was look at her questioning — maybe lovingly, maybe hatefully — through his mischievous glasses, his intelligent glasses, his quiet glasses, his understanding glasses, his handsome glasses, his seeing glasses. He saw right through her as she wept and was swept off her feet, back home, back to another world where her grieving didn’t exist and saying goodbye wasn’t an option. Where things were effortless and painless and tearless.
Please — Mr. Mpo, Mr. Broken Glass, Mr. Heart Breaker, Mr. Looking Glass — please leave the door open as you leave. And thank you for stopping by.
She was crying the first time that she said “I love you,” and not because of her throbbing heart. She imagined the blood running through her, either carrying a truth or a lie. She did not know what was real and what was not, so she nodded and smiled while he fawned and protected.
It was like living two separate lives: one here, one there. They were equally brilliant for different reasons, and perhaps both shone brighter because they were kept away from each other.
Yet this contrast was also dangerous, for it allowed her to stay within her made-up world of glass slippers without contextualizing it in her alternate reality. Without knowing it, she may have bitten into the poison apple and spoiled the happy ending for everyone involved. Her tendency to draw outside of the lines was foreboding. It’s as if she looks for flowers off of the path in order to ensure that she doesn’t follow the yellow brick road. If she keeps walking, she’ll certainly get somewhere; but she doesn’t know where somewhere is, and this frightens her.
Double helixes fascinate her, as does the intertwining of two bodies. They fit together, perfectly delicate and delicately perfect. All is in balance, until she kicks down the building blocks one, by one.
Th Master of all English Teachers and Storytellers
oh me! oh life! … the question, o me! so sad, recurring —
what good amid these, o me, o life?
that you are here — that life exists and identity, that
the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.