do not think you are safe because you love her.

do not think she will not stain her mouth red with your blood too.

Madeleine Christie, Atalanta

The first tinges of winter work their way back into my skin. Sometimes, I am all right. I am awake. I am engaged. I am resolute. It does not matter that hours of silence have stretched on into days, into weeks. It does not matter because I am fine. I promised that I would be, so I am. For a month, I have done precious little other than endeavor to prove just how mistaken they were; just how capable, how fine, I am. Other times, it has not been so manageable. I am lost and confused. I am the child who cannot find her father, who cannot keep a friend. I do not have an adequate language for what those times feel like. I have broken down a few times. Retreated. Cried. Written long, impassioned letters, bitter apologies, and half-hearted farewells, tucked them away within a pile of birthday cards, polaroids, sketches, and other cherished memories, and burned them all away in wordless exorcisms of a reality I cannot face. Sometimes, I find that I cannot withstand it anymore. I shivered, last night, back into the familiarity of an ancient, sacred art: those burning moments of sanctuary, of unfettered life, of knotted limbs and hair, of hands, of hips, of knees, of tense and tangled words. And suddenly, fleetingly, my life was shining again, my pulse was strong, its rhythm was welcome. The teeth that I had sharpened on discontent were good for something now, tearing sensation from the savage flesh of November, and my desire was a triumph, I was feral, I was alive, I conjured some defiant echo of the willful, half-wild person that I was. I am learning now, albeit slowly, what I expect from the people I care for. I have no patience left for weakness and apologies, for half-hearted defenses of others' cruelty, for those content to watch mistreatment and the infliction of suffering so long as they, themselves, remain unaffected. I do not accept, should never have accepted, the professed love of anyone who would sanction what I stand against. Caccianli i ciel per non esser men belli, né lo profondo inferno li riceve, ch'alcuna gloria i rei avrebber d'elli. If there is some other side to this, to all of the interspersed vitriol and cowardice, then I am having trouble seeing it. I challenge anyone to live as I have these past four weeks and not feel the contempt that sustains me now. But not everyone was taken in. Just a week ago I spoke with a figure who could have said nothing, who could have remained impassive, who could have dismissed or ignored my pain, but he simply chose not to; he chose, instead, to care. I winced with realization at a single word he used, as he dragged the dark hair back from his eyes—"It isn't fair. You're being dehumanized." Dehumanized. I loath those connotations, those undertones of victimization, but I could not deny or reject the phrase. He knew. He saw. And he was not the only one. I have felt alone, but I have not actually been so. What a life I still find, however fleetingly, however inconstantly, beyond the narrow binds of rejection. How many people have reached out to me? How many drinks and confessions and cigarettes have we shared? Reams of advice and tattered books of poetry, comfort and patience and moments of fleeting happiness, contentment, even belonging. In some ways, I think that I am finally found. When I ran away again, it was into a wonderful haze of smoke and sunlight, into the company of a woman who still believed I was still something. In the taste of Spanish wine, in azure waters suspended in perfect stillness, in rich patterns of shadow across glints of burnished gold, in foreign tongues and flavors of thought, in haunting dreamscapes of lamplight and mist, in her lovely hands and amber eyes. I sat in silence, a resplendent city blazing below me, far and bright. I chewed on the end of a cigarette and swore never to allow a person to hurt me again. These people, these places, have loved me at my darkest. We share no history, no obligation, but they have done so anyways. There is a world elsewhere. I am finding it now. There will be no more postcards, no more consternation, no more explanations, no more prying eyes.  The photographs are peeled like flesh from my walls. The images have all been burned away. The room has been stripped bare, reduced to a pale, watchful iris. The livid tapestry of fabrication is all I will keep to remember this by. You should be afraid of me. I do not forgive you. I was worth more than this, and you could not make me forget that. You could not drive me away from this place. You never had the strength to bleed me out. You will never again have my yearning, my commitment, you will not even have my hatred. I will strive to feel nothing. But for as long as I remain in this city of entropy and stone, I will remember what was done. And I am not the only one. My continued efforts have not gone unnoticed. I am a walking testament to deficiencies that are not my own. It never had to be this way--but this is the choice that you made. So I accept it. I accept all of it. I have no sympathy, no willingness to understand anymore. And I am not sorry for generating, on my own terms, the discourse that I have been denied. I hope that you feel every promise you broke, every lie that you told.  I am not sorry for writing this. For weeks, I have faced the wrong side of her whims. You can deign now to face the wrong side of my pen. I am ready, at last, to see this all for what it was. To condemn and walk away. It took every effort to assail my health to remind me just how badly I want to live fully, to be whole once more. On the underside of my ambition, my disillusionment, my contempt, emerge the inscriptions of real possibility. I am awake. I feel remorseless. I feel strong. The obscurity of remorse is lifting.  I am inexorable. Complete. Nothing will hurt me now. I can meet the world unscathed. At long last, my history has served me well.