More Than One Way to Die

Maybe after a certain point we don’t grow.  Maybe we just do somersaults in place, repeating our old mistakes over and over, person by person, relationship by relationship, as we work as we age, as we gray, as our hips round, as our children emerge from between our thighs, as we work, as we date, as we get engaged, as we break engagements, as we marry, as we become widows, as we work, as we age, as we gray…..

Maybe, after a certain point, we learned all that we will be allowed to learn.  Maybe, after a certain point, all we have are the shells of ourselves society allowed us to have, brown clay pressed out in shapes formed at eight, ten, eighteen years old, back when the world was still shiny and new.  Back when we were princesses.

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