Prose of Ceeairrah

“Freedom is so expensive,” I share with the one who once held the key.

“You never make any sense. What freedom?” he asks.

There is no way to remove him from my skin. If there is a way, it’s one of  those things that really wise dead women know. Like the way you to heal a bruise that darkens from the collision between bone and knuckle. Or how to ignore the cruel whisper of a soul intent on your destruction.

Like those women, I understand, watching him trying to string together persuasive words that it is my secret to keep. “I need you to go.”

His smile comes suddenly. “But you don’t want me to.”

“Probably not,” I have to admit, “but you still have to.”

Those wise dead women won’t share their secrets. They will hold onto them with burning admiration. They smile and say, You’ll learn. You will learn and also keep it to yourself. Because you will know, as we know, that the secret is sweeter in the discovery.

 

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