In Principio

honeyed feet

I don't know what to do. I have never had friends like this group or been in drama or seen it, only known it was trouble and to stay away from its sticky web. But what I didn't know was that I signed up for it as soon as I became friends with everyone. Drama was already there. I was drama. They were drama. We all played it without knowing, but the only difference is that now she's extremely hideous and real. And I don't like her. I wanna run from her and tell you and scream and love my words and hold them close and ask for help and leave and stop and do a million things a write a trillion things. I can't. I have to walk right through it and deal with it. Show a little heart to get back and save a little heart. Get colder. It's scary and wrong but I can't tell them that; the knife is poised to penetrate the tender weak in my back. Who do I trust? Who do I tell? This isn't war, it's strategy; cool, logical, calculated movements in a game of chess, to be three moves ahead only to get cut down by a pawn. To hold your face or flip through it, wearing the expression best suited for the situation, like dress up every day but for life. It's so damn hard, god. I can't say this out loud; I'm too proud. But I can tell you. You don't know me. You be glad you don't. You do not have honey feet. But who knows, you may just as well have threaded hands.