Everytime I think I’m done with this thing…

It pulls me back in:

I feel loose and frayed around the edges. The seams…the very things that hold me together are quietly falling apart. If anything should happen; if I were to take on anymore weight, the seam will break and I will split open; top to bottom, ass to appetite and I will standby helplessly and watch the things that make me whole spill out on the floor. I don’t know what this thing is; this feeling …it seems I’m full to overflowing with it. And it’s searching for a way out.
I try to find a way to be careful, but my words fall short of honesty; half truths only half-believed. Some people just want to be deceived. They will happily live in a lie it’s a beautiful one. So staggeringly beautiful that it can hide the ugly truth. And the truth is that when I wake in the morning all those men taste of love and mistakes. The bitter taste of coffee grounds, cigarettes and long stale, over sweet pastry; too sweet and dry to swallow without milk. The sweat and desperation of fleeting embraces is tangled in my sheets; the stink of spent desire clings to my clothes. All those men…they came and went, leaving behind the tattered remnants of passion snagged on the ragged edges of lust. And she was no different…my lady love; my Italian princess. Pillowcases hold the scent of breath emitted in ecstasy. My lips, my skin and my cunt are forever imprinted with her touch. Memories of caresses received and given by hands now empty; hands now absent.
“I don’t fuck you this way because I want to hurt you,” she said to me once. “I fuck you like this because I want you to feel me.”
“And you were felt…” I murmur under my breath as I save the file. “Deeply, profoundly and completely.”

* * * * *
Once again, I find myself adding yet another chapter to my novel, Her Haberdashery. A year ago, I thought her story was done. Three months ago, I thought her story was done; but still Yves Santiago wakes me from sleep and forces me to write her words; tell her story. All of this brings to mind a question…when writing a novel, how do you know when you are done? So much time has passed…and still this character speaks to me. How do I know when to stop?

And…more importantly, am I mad? Am I crazy? Shouldn’t I be able to shut her out?

Her Haberdashery copyright © 2009 T. Harrison

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