My Dearest Conflict, l
Urged, I chose to celebrate the body with rocks and stilettos. I’ve hollowed the tips of my bullets. I’ve poisoned the mouthwash.
Look at these hands—at the heart, they’re contemplating God. God, they think, can drop a branch without warning.
your sympathy, dearest. Spare me the discretion of an overdone murder
or the secret of the sinister man you’ve willed me.
What good is it to be overdone without the rest of the story? What good will you be with your hands behind your back and your legs bound as in predestination?
Think—rain. Think—a man in a black shirt at the back of the bus. There are eyelids at work here.
Dearest . . Dearest.
Let drive the rock you’ve sharpened to fury. Let fly the blade to my suspect body. I suspect everything will thank me for this.
So thanks. Again, thanks.