Life redux.

  Ronda pages I We are not okay.. The quiet closed in of the dangling deep, I thought you'd meet me there, push through the pain. So, I will not pretend, and you will not partake, thereby I am forced to do the same, as if nothing had ever changed, and so the scream takes shape. II Smile sweetly Ricardo/I do not need to stay How easily you stood behind that nauseas smile. Taking everyone with you, like the last remnants of a solid fake. But I will speak, and honor the flame. There is no swallow, only spit. One must get it out, the harm that is; or else lay the ground to waste;and render all fruits infertile, poison from the muted tree. Because what falls down and crumble to dust, was never real, only gaudy and exotic paste. II It's all about the exits I wont be complicit in your pretend, your glide above the happenings, your flight from depth and real. I would have worked with you at the bottom of the deep, but like an exotic bird in fright you flew...

 Ronda is in me, with me through me. From high gorges to low depths. All things must ring  true.

There is no other choice. He left no other way.I will not wear his phony. I will not do his fake. No fake-news smiles, or massaged halos of facade on this relationship trip. Its either the deep gorges of showing up; root cause ownership, or naught. So kindly, and politely I say with love:Up till now it's been a lot of fun, but from here on in fuck you. MB

I cannot say it yet, the heart wont form, and hurt wont yield, so it sits above it's self; caged and molten in the free forming waves that crash around ancient parapets. The ledge, where we dare not speak, or walk beyond the skin. Those small tactile points, the hurts of wars, that we suffer in the silence of  retreats; Jaded smiles, walled up within them selves. A bluff hold of memory, high apon a lime stone head, looking out to the ancient plain, where warrior armies gather in the depth below. Arms drawn, knives ready. Blood.Bloodied. Bled. MB