I made a mistake. And I think I knew that when I was making it. Now I’m left trying to staunch that endless, pathetic flow—all my thoughts, eagerness, love. My sad, desperate desire for connection. The moment even a drop is offered, I cling to it like the skin of the earth.
I wasn’t ready yet. I could barely last three weeks. I certainly can’t do another five years. And here I am cleaning up my own mess yet again. There’s really something about repeating yourself over and over, seemingly without any control. I would have thought all the pain could have taught me my lesson by now.
But I’m starting to think this lesson is one I’ll just never, ever learn.