In its primordial avatar, the act of catharsis brought one release and relief. Purging, purifying, and expunging the unwanted. But I still want you. How then do I walk the line of fire and let myself emerge whole? You cannot leave because I won’t let you. So why write? Why bleed over the keyboard and clog the screen with parts of me you want nothing to do with?

You run. That’s what you do. You run. When it gets too much, you don’t even need shoes. You stop speaking, start breathing and build up a storm within. Then you bolt. Stride after stride covering yard after yard.

I am sitting here on the floor, hands empty and eyes full wondering how far you will wander this time without me. But there is no time to think now. My veins are filling. The artery on my neck is throbbing like that of a fattened sheep waiting his turn at the knife. I am scrambling, crawling, pushing towards the laptop. Lid open, I begin to type. My fingers moving swiftly I am recording logs of events,  feelings of panic, descriptions of the building anxiety. All in all another archive of our failure.

I will write myself out of you.
I will write you out of me.
I will write the wrong out of me. 
I will right the wrong inside.
I will write the right.
I will write until it’s okay.
Until I run, like you run.
Out of words.

All the while, you stay on your feet bouncing from one furlong to the next, trying to get as far away from the fire as possible. The fire that is me. The flame that you stoked, the embers that you kept. The inferno that now licks at your heels. Run. This was a mistake. Run. I am not the one. Run. This love will only tear us apart.

Write. Release. Write. Remove. Run. Renew. Write. Reject. Run. Regurgitate. Run. Do not stop.

Stop.
And you die.