I felt sorry when I found out her vagina was just an unloaded gun, still warm and with a taste of deadly powder. A deep hollow space hungry for a sweet kill. Waiting for meaning, waiting to be full.
It was all an obvious tragedy. My adoration became shame when my phallic projection was busy pursuing my adolescent defeats.
She was so absolute, perfect and helpless. She was so willingly without form, like a pile of clay waiting to become a statue.
I wanted refuge inside her labyrinth. Denying cheap fear stained sweat, I wanted fair ground. But fear makes us so feeble, so liquid. It makes us so soft.
I was threatening her with an absolute bang, an absolute change.
When she felt lost, angry and confused, she walked towards the door and into the cold. Then I realized I've already forgotten her.