Heather Bennett

 Clear. It is quite clear. Grey is not for those trying not to believe the implications of his actions. I guess. That she
is less. My lovely girl. Quiet seems to be so much more acceptable than strong. Slapping him as proof of what. I
am surprised that I still have enough idealism to attempt to say I don’t understand this irony. This indomitability that I try to hold up as it sinks and sags all over my floor. Please let me tell you. I pour you another drink and must seem frantic in my desire, my conceit, to not see you, to not let you go down. What is clear. We are less. You are sacred. Clamping shut is an admission that you realize who he is. This is not immediate. Though they assume this to be easy. Don’t give it up so easily. Him letting go so easily thunders in me as I look at you. All that I cannot put into words is not sacred, the incredulity of this dismissal, leaden frustration, immobile and entrenched as I have always known. Who decides. An authority. This is a question. She is on the shore and then she is gone, but pervasive. An endless residue that is benevolent but somehow controls everything under some kind of compulsory veil, subdued and cloaked and hidden. She is quiet and so prized. I hate seeing you like that. But you are fighting and I cannot make you believe it. When is it ok to tell the truth. When can I tell you that I will pick it all up. I want to. We are all there, in the light, but reticent, silent, so obviously, blindingly silent. My reality embarrasses me, especially later. My dear. I am still trying to put it into words.