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Despair’s aftermath

I woke up this morning to find that Despair was gone. Apparently my darkness was not enough to satisfy her.  She left my sink overflowing with dishes of half eaten food, empty Coke cans strewn about.  Apparently she left in a hurry; her laundry is still in the washer. There was a note scribbled on a paper towel on the counter saying she’d be back. She’d threatened to leave a few days ago when she found me on the computer reading kind words from strangers.  I have not yet noticed her absence enough to miss her.

I have a confession to make.

Despair didn’t show up unexpectedly. I went looking for her, gave her my address, asked her to come. I’ve been in love with her since the first time she presented herself to me, wearing a sleeveless shirt, drunk and bleary eyed, confessing that she’d just seduced her step sister. She was athletic then, burnished golden, the blonde hairs on her arms glistened in the sunlight. When I put my mouth on her exquisite lips, I knew for the first time what it felt like to be alive.

Despair knows exactly how to entice me. She knows I am Desire’s slave. I go back and forth between the two of them. I can never go too long without sleeping with Despair. She has never refused me, in spite of the many times I have abruptly left in search of Desire. Despair knows that as long as I am Desire’s slave I will never completely belong to her. But she is content in the knowledge that I will be back. I need her presence as much as she requires my absence. And Despair and Desire never come at the same time. They cannot co-exist.


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