Started my homework for t today on the way home. Writing at each stoplight. Thinking about the story I need to write from the 3 tarot cards I pulled the other day. Anyway as I was thinking about that, and possible 'other sides' of love and beauty, some bits of a new poem came:

"but beauty is sometimes a mask
hiding intricate pain behind
golden tendrils of deception"

thinking as I was that love can become manipulative (when it ceases to be love) and beauty can be deceptive and... stuff like that. I think it is easier to tell a story in a poem than to write an actual story.

H could tell I was upset this evening. He asked why and said "I hate it when you're upset." I tried. Honest, I tried to talk to him. All I could do was cry and say "It's ok. Don't worry about it."

It's me, it's always been me, it always will be me, and blah blah blah.

Ah, that's enough about me. I now return you to the regularly scheduled couch programming!