The house is very trying/ hanging with the tension of no firends since paula left/ Making bread for pitchforks.

 

Sasha

She does not want the good thing in her hand. It is too bright for her, too strong, too burning. It is a discomfort, an infestation- so instead she becomes the subtle rising to my falling in the chaos of wanting to belong throat. That no comfort place. Too high above the ground, riding the currents alone. She likes small circles and bright things. Things that do not give, things that let her down. Every part of her is a liar, and yet I seek admittance to this blood dead heart with the jet black tongue. It is loneliness, because  with her there is no light, or give, or mutual offering; she is entirely dormant, like the false rays of a false sun-  tearing the world up, leaving the world wrong.I am both hooked, enthralled and simultaneously rejected . I need a friend, I want support, and yet with her I am pesistently rejected. She must never be the thing I want. MB