I ask: How many more smashplaster, smashglass nights ending in grief and swollen wrists? How many more nights will I wake to soaked sheets and REM-stage after-images of you and your cowardly lover waving me away dismissively as I am dragged away into a swirling scarlet fog of fury. How much longer must I chew this bolus of wormwood and gall?
Consummatum est. Nicht wahr? Yet what line of flight can I pursue when all lines lead to you?
Release me. Give me truth -- unvarnished, brutal truth. Then I shall be free. . .
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