March 4th, Year of the Corpse

A moment of weakness and candor: I miss my animated Corpse. This pining weighs me down, and leaves my head aching from racing thoughts. My eyes are burning with tears being held captive by false pride. I am well-aware now that I was just a treasure to a dictator, and that stealthy actions should have taken place as preventative measures. There were missed opportunities to sneak away from Joseph, but I stayed still. Or he caught me in a moment of rest, or I liked the attention he gave me.

The Corpse is gone, yes. But his absence is temporary, always. He is the dark shadow that looms over me, when I least expect it. He is the voice that calls me out of deep introspection. He is the hand that grabs mine, when I walk at night. And all of this, when written out, is clearly insanity. This is not love at all. It is Stockholm syndrome.

Joseph is irrational, hell-bent on directing his life in spirals. When I last spoke to him, only days ago, he was manic. He told his stories with dizzying speech. An owl is his friend, and carries personal messages to and for him, he said. He was arrested for possession of marijuana, he said. Then, he held on to me, refusing to let go. I have always wanted you, and wonder why you cannot feel the same for me, he whispered. And with no more to give, he finished by saying that he is in a committed relationship, but I am not free to do the same.

March 4th, Year of the Corpse

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