And Slowly She Dies

I can feel my creativity lessening and lessening. I can feel it waning, tapering off. Too soon. I am starting to vie for my 18 year old self. The self who was reckless, a heart breaker, numb, beautiful, fierce, and could send syllables shooting off her tongue quicker with more fluidity than Old Faithful herself.

I wonder if it's this convenient heterosexual lifestyle, if it's this comfortable housing situation. I play wife, he plays husband. I cook and clean, get mad when he messes up. He rubs my feet, tells me it will be okay, and sometimes treats me with surprises.

I can feel this monster inside of me screaming to get out. Images and remembrances reinforce this impatient demon.

Will tonight be the night? Will I wreck it all for nothing?