A Girl Named Wednesday.

You don’t just fall into happily ever after. That ending is spun of cotton candy fantasy and if it ever came it would be without force or finality. So much the better for our fears to grow, you see. A ready bed in which to draw the curtains in, around all I’ll never know. I can’t end this story before it has really begun. So don’t tell my happily ever after, just plunge me into your sweet nothings, your blissful retreat from the well-plotted book. I want a story not yet sung, to take a hand and go somewhere the world may not always follow.

Between the sheets is a whole new force -

I named it Wednesday because it’s hauntingly beautiful but hard to get over. You probably call it Love. What was that about roses and names again?

It’s up to you, of course because nothing smells so sweet to me these days but I like to name things thrice. One for you, and one for me, and one to keep under the Christmas tree. The third is secret like kisses stolen under mistletoe. The third is power – the hand that slips across your mouth in the middle of the night.

Your story isn’t begun with once upon a time in a land far, far away. But I’m far, far away even when my vision is clear. All locked in some turret with a dragon or two down below and a garden of ruby red roses thick with the scent of betrayal.

For the longest time I’ve held sovereignty over a heart that I didn’t own. I’ve crashed full force against a Berlin Wall I built with my two left feet. I exiled those feet a long time gone so now I’m falling through a starry night, through the wishes I made on those bright days I don’t remember when. I think sometimes, though I may not know the moment, I do know still. It was when I knew I could fly away and it would always be the first time I’d made the trip. When the closing of doors didn’t flood my mind with dread threaded to an ever shorter fuse. When I thought that I could trust my voice to bridge the gap between what I saw and what I lacked.

There are some decisions made you can’t undo, piper’s paid and meals made. So many dreams to dream but I’m stumbling through my life again because I see them in daylight too. So the days unfold, and time goes on like they told me it would but I try to remember that it’s in the opening of each day that the glory lies.

Do I yet dream? In the opening itself a future blooms.

My future? In lifting the lid Pandora lives and Schrödinger’s atoms dance on the head of a pin.