🔵 By Daniel Broome. Photo by lauragrafie.
Truth is… I’ve met only one woman all these years.
The sad part… She had been SO abused by men that it was not possible to feel warmth; I would’ve spent the rest of my life trying to bring her back. I can only try to imagine the interventions of a soul, or a group of souls, or over time not being able to recognize one from the next, the inculcation of pain that was imprinted on her.
Of course she destroyed me, many women do this for their man – it’s love. But every time I tried to fell what she was saying I couldn’t help but picture tears in her beautiful eyes. She wanted me to hate with her. I told her she assumes I’m the little girl she used to be who needs, for a reason only an abused understands, her heart ripped out for good; when it’s actually I who’ve transcended hell… But, in part, if I had re-introduced my hell into our story together, it would’ve killed transcendence. Transcendence suicide AAWWWOOOO! Maybe I should have, for love.
But for years… I’ve been surrounded by it: Hell is at all hours down in the crack, all down here. See my heart black – it’s romantic, it’ll never beg you to let it go – but in its end, when I sleep, are you going to give me warmth? The answer is no.