Bleed

"So how is the writing?" she said, and I knew I should not have answered. Narrow cobblestone streets confused us, we had to look at a map and the streets were so dark. I never know how to lie at the right times; being polite trumps protecting my words, she is my boss, and what is the right answer anyways?

Speaking of these words, it is like opening a solid door to unprotected flesh. They are the children I must keep close to me, and not toss them around haplessly like summer flowers. I begin to speak and secrets seep from my veins like sap; I pray the walk will end and I can return to silence.

The Bordeaux night is black. We cross the mighty river, glittering under street lights. Perhaps it is a whole other world. Perhaps if I bleed straight into this river it will not matter. Scatter your words to the wind: at least then they will go somewhere.