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As wonderful as things are right now, as mellowly amazing it feels to burn for someone I've connected with more in a week and a half then I did with other lovers over years, a part of me does not want to let go of this pain. The part of me that craves tragic beauty, that has destroyed so many relationships, that always tore greedily through the skin, tossed aside the meat, and let the juices fall to the floor in haste to get to the tender tragic core. I will let go of the twisting inside of me, the listlessness, the wasteland that the beautiful boys I've trusted over the years have left in me, because cherishing tragedy is no more a way to live than snorting pills to dull myself entirely is. But I have a rather large suspicion that some over-bloodied part of my partially crippled, fully nostalgic heart will miss it now and again, when I hear a song that one of them used to sing, when I walk down the detergent aisle and smell something that they used to wash their clothes with. This attachment to the dramatic tragedy I've experienced is a part of me, I have come to believe, and am starting to accept, that there is nothing I can do to change this, I must simply try to minimize the damage.

So it goes.