At the thank you When you fall in love, it really does not fall. It collapses with all his weight on his knees, face against the ground. And the weapon that was in hand escapes from our hands to roll under a shelf, and the shield which is held tight against us broke into a thousand pieces that sink into our heart. And they fell at the feet of the Other that crushes us all His infinite relative superiority. The soldier abandons us, we are more than simple civilian, as low a newborn. And the white flag that tends forward, the shroud covering a gesture dry remains of our freedom gone.
We capitulated to the first warning shot that passes over our heads already inclined, petrified by the absence of knee-jerk reaction of our body, held at gunpoint by a watchful, kept in check by a failing heart. We give ground, inch after inch, the sign of the fingertips act of peace in the household, and one guard position, prostrate, prostrate. And wait. Offered at the nape of fatal cleaver separation, one expects the move. Because it's right, be in love: Wait patiently and continuously blow.
Or, you can always decide to fight. Resist the invader. Go underground. Organize urban guerrilla warfare against his own instincts. Wield its weapons. Hide her tears. Be assertive, not to doubt. Be equal to that which seems to dominate all his infinite relative superiority. To upgrade.
I had an imaginary friend, in time, as you told me that it was bullshit, these stories of power within the couple. He was found the head embedded in the toaster, the mutilated body masher. He must have forgotten to put his shoes on entering, or ride one too close to the bottom.
But that's not the issue, miss. I'll keep you head, if only because I want as much to the life I want to.
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