Circumscribed
What you said wasn’t what you wanted to say; but it has already been heard, and what has already been heard cannot be unheard. You can look at an old photograph and say, “Why did I ever think that those clothes looked good?” but it doesn’t change the fact that you thought it looked good. It doesn’t change the fact that you were once wrong. And once again you find yourself staring into a wrong, a much more harsh wrong that does not fade with time. Once again, however, you deter blame. It was an Emotionally Transmitted Disease we have been unable to rid ourselves of since we first set foot in its holy filth, so how were you expected to? Much stronger humans have tried. Even so you keep every memory close; recalling them with excruciating detail-every tear and chuckle, every smile and sorrow-because what are we if we are not our memories set in stone? Either way, you start to keep count and you wonder how many lies you have to tell yourself before you finally believe it. Blood and contradiction flow through those veins. “It’s no Big deal,” you scoff. In the end, they are holding hands, and you are holding hands, and we are holding our breath. It’s no mystery.