Vachon Imagined

“Explosive restraint,” she thinks, as everything that burns inside of her makes its way out onto a canvas, a person, an act.

Her fiery passion, uninhibited but held in a restraint that it never escapes her, sitting on the tip of her tongue, dancing around like a pearl moving between slopes of ecstasy and the sheer pain of disillusionment.

How could I dance so nakedly in the open and be so devastated that I returned not to innocence, but to horror?

A horror that bathed over me like moonlight bereft of its senses, disregarded by its own reality.

He lifted me high, she thought, only to find herself face-planting once again onto the floor of no apology.

Oops, I did it again.

She thought, though no one was there to witness it.

Again.

I did it again.

Silly.

Dumb.

Me.

“Explosive restraint,” asked again:

Do you want temporary joy,

or something that never leaves?

And she picked up her pencil, now sharpened again like the days of high school and Number 2 shavings.

She whispered in full explosion:

I want you.

Just more of you.