Feel

FEEL

It's not really the right environment, to be sat here, writing these
few lines for you. You know me so well I don't know where to start. I
don't want you to read more into what's on the page than what exists in
my mind. When will all this end? Not a movement I make, not a word I
utter will be new, fresh or alive to you. Yet I feel I need to say
these things so you know, even if you don't really read this (and I
mean take notice of what I write) for another ten years. You can't
confine me anymore but neither can you love me and I have always loved
you, I still do but you know that I must escape. Out of these clothes
that you bought for me, out of this mind set that you created for me, I
know that you did all of it for me, but it's too much. I'm claiming
back what's mine, I'm finding out what's new and fresh and alive. Maybe
one day we'll meet again and you won't recognise the lines on my face,
the way my smile can tilt or the woman stood in front of you in her new
shiny black suit.

It's not really the right environment, to be sat here, writing these
few lines for you. Your little woman, all grown up and moving on with
her life. Many say that it's too late for me, that I can't break the
mould you made, but I am stronger than you think my love, but not
strong enough to love anybody else, not yet, not yet. I've grown
attached to the darkness you've created; it hides my wrinkles but
encourages my fears. It's time to face them all now, walk over that
ledge and see where I fall. You don't need to catch me and it's ok if I
never wake up. You'll see me again, if not in life, in your thoughts
and memories, nobody forgets their first pet.

It's not really the right environment, to be sat here, writing these
few lines for you. I've nowhere to go to finish this goodbye but here
in the stale mist of morning silence and the music of too many years
gone by. I know the tune and I know all the words and you my dear must
know the dance. You can stop dancing now, or at least take the hand of
a new fair maiden. For I am gone, running through fields of roses and
clover. A reincarnation of a new form, a feminine form in control and
determined. I am no Gilbert or Gubar and have no desire to be so; in
fact I have no desire to be anyone but myself, for myself, and nobody
else. I know you will not cry my love but I shall weep for you, for a
love that is lost and a broken record, playing music of too many years
gone by.