Dark Amber

I’ve been away for a while. I try to explain why, but it’s like opening a bag full of amber beads, polished into whiskey darkness, that scatter everywhere. How do I say, ‘my brain is a bear trap and it’s caught my sleeve again.’ Sometimes, they try to blame it on the time of year. My doctor and I look sourly at each other, we both know I am more likely to be hospitalised in the spring.

One of us has to die, I realise. One of my selves, because the tug-of-war is getting stale, like trying to chew old bread. It makes my gums bleed.

But which self lives, and which is taken away? Can you even remove a part of yourself like that? They say ‘fake it ’til you make it’ but what’s there to fake? I am twins, but only one of us can be born again. Do I save the soft and anxious ingenue or their darker, cleverer sibling? A fairytale in each hand, but I have to cast off one of the witches. Which one burns?

 

 

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