I was 21 years old when I found out.
Found out what I meant.
What I meant, when I spoke.
When I boiled, when I clenched, when I fought.
It took 21 years to ask the question, to see myself, to see the reflection in the words,
on the page.
21 years to understand.
21. But not the picture, no not the tapestry, but the thread.
A single thread. A thread I had a frazzled end to, a thread that I clench on to-
wrap my finger around until its white
white like the page in my mind
the page that I leave for you,
understanding you.
Where; I understand you.
One day, I say to myself. One day... so leave the page.
Leave it white. White. Pure. Innocent.
Leave it alone. I cry, I scream, I demand, I need... to leave it white.
Leave it selfish, naive.
Leave it uncaring, honest, whole-hearted, open-ended, irrational.
Young...and loved.
All this time...I craved love.
The kind of love where I can ask you for a wine. An expensive wine.
A wine, an unreasonable wine- a classy, aged, expensive wine.
A wine, I chuck out the window.
Chuck it out the window; screaming.
Screaming, demanding, needing to leave it white.
To hear you say, I'm sorry. I should have known.
I should have known the wine was shit.
I should have known. Known the wine was red.
Inspired by Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
