There is nothing like the sweet smell of death scratching so closely to my own life. I let the feeling linger like the kiss of my lover. My temptress and fleeting desire. If I could, I would let it in, open my door to its sweet embrace. Let the embers burn me because I feel frozen. It’s not that I am suicidal, it’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that I am tired of trying to understand when I don’t. Why do these things happen? Why is it that I can let my heart bleed onto your sleeve and the blood does not stain you but washes off of you like water to the feathers of a duck? If the purpose of life is to love, you have me at my weakest and most vulnerable. I allowed myself to crack my door and you bulldozed through it. Now I need my White Knight to come. If you kill him in my longing to be near him, I can cloak myself in his armor and learn to become him.
The legend of the White Knight isn’t about him saving me. It’s about me learning how to save myself.