“Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
She came from behind and with a quick subconscious flick of her wrist, drew a spreading red slash across the neck of my creativity. As if to mock my draining ambition, she put her mouth on me and swallowed the essence of my being, my last trinkets of care for her, for this world, for anything that faintly resembled hope. Sex, the horribly inefficient bandage of the addict, which she used to attempt the correction of her mistakes, became the soaked bloody evidence that the desire of body and soul were dying, left unattended by any whose triage could save us. For in killing me, she succeeded in a suicide of her own drawn out and withered existence. And so we died, one for giving, the other for taking, which I decided was right, because both were a mistake.
First published in Opinionsofeye.com