Today, deconstruction feels like searching for safety amid gentle knocks on locked doors by well-meaning lovers, reverberating through the dim, stale hallways of the labyrinthine fortress I created.
I pick at the rusted locks wanting to let them in, insomnia and nightmares in my patient, scratching despair. None of the locks have keys or combinations. The terrorized adolescent that made them never designed them to open.
It was all supposed to make sense someday. The logic of my body was built on the fear of certain destruction, as the empire intended.
Was there something very wrong with me, I wonder, that I played its game so well?