tuckova

thirteen minutes to get it out, go. either you walk through the world and hand out knives because nothing can hurt you anymore because you’ve moved into the perfect white between, or you walk through the world shielded and afraid, or you stay inside and hide behind the glass because it’s too scary on the other side. your choices are fierce or cowering or hidden. you cannot go out and only deal with people who do not frighten you so the choice is go out and be strong or go out and be hurt or stay in. you cannot selectively hold your heart in your hand on your sleeve please look at it pulsing and pretty and then somebody gives it a poke and you say they had no right. you cannot claim the privilege of offering it without claiming the responsibility for the damage and what do you care what they say about your heart, your bloody sleeve, your pitiful open hands, what you got that’s so precious anyway, precious sweet it ain’t like it’s a ring somebody’s gonna steal from you am i right. you cannot continue to alternately hand the knives to the people who stab you and then send morse code to the people across the street with your window blinds: see me. it seems to me like you have to make a choice. it seems to me like you’re in or out. it seems to me like the stakes being high is what makes the game worth playing but it seems to me you could choose how high and give yourself a little room to twist free. don’t start with me with your invisible options. don’t ask if you could maybe go out and leave your heart at home. don’t talk about going to the casino if you don’t want to gamble. stop gambling what you’re afraid of losing is all. take your heart with you and don’t put it on the baize, somehow. or stay home. what do i know.