There it is again. Creeping out from beneath my vest of bravado and the beaming rays of self assurance, the inkiness threatens to stain all of my being with its thick coating substance.

Each acreage of my heart and self the liquid coats accentuate fissures and fractures in the entire structure. How could I believe any of this to be sound enough for building? Let alone something as important as a relationship. How could the engineers in my mind (logic and reason), and the laborers of my heart (passion and love) allow such a disaster to move forward?

Distracted by the gaping holes in my soul, I cannot look to the light, to the warmth awaiting and its confidence in who (or rather whom) he believes me to be. I am only a shell, an unshapely mannequin being dressed for whatever window to which he is seeking this day. Nothing exists beneath the sprayed on brown flesh, the molded limbs and the wig.

The darkness has amazing abilities to illuminate, some even greater than the sun. Exposed here, in this abyss of reflection and internal searching, I choke on the revelations of who I am not and what I do not have.

Surely, I cannot proceed further with the erection of my building. Not when the inspectors have ignored all indicators that further construction would lead only to a disaster, heartache and loss of life (as in the life of a relationship).

I must hire a construction firm, for the architects, the laborers, the engineers, even the foreman have all been blinded by greed and apparently lust. So intrigued by the possibilities, they neglected to focus on the realities.

I've been through this before as I move to start the wrecking ball.

Destroying something that once had such promise shoves the lump in my throat even higher, squeezing my own hunger to build again into oblivion.

Rae