Once a week I declare I am moving to an island, hot and wet, with waters bluer and more hypnotic than anyones eyes. The evasions and elusiveness push me into deeper recesses of doubt and I have nowhere to turn but to a foreign tide, where my name hasn’t been soaked in yours, doused in dread, cut up and mutilated. I promised myself to stop running and start seeking.
Or some otherworld, whose occupants are mischievous nymphs, not good-not bad, but sensual, rowdy, connected to the earth and waters, frolicking amidst twinkling orbs and strange apparitions.
Your evil is fast food meat and the winking of casino lights, the chiming of slot machines and the mechanical pumping of stale air. Your evil is the misuse of natural of forces, pissing sacred power up the walls. Your evil is the notion that women exist as entertainment.
My evil is darker even, embossed in secrecy, casting melodies that ring from my body in pink lights, capturing hearts and leaving big shadows. The fall from innocence, dressed as innocence. Hungry to be looked at, a vampiric voyeur collecting precarious experience. This tangled web I weave shrouds me like dirt, rich and thick. Moving like an animal tamer, bold, authoritative, impossible to deny. My evil is cunning, calculated.
I want to learn to control the part of myself that is a tempestuous succubus, on the high stakes race, feeding on hearts and spitting them out, half digested. I want to put that part in a box, tie it up, ship it to a subsection of hell. But the therapists and healers say you can't get rid of it, only throw love at it. I’ll start there.