Too much of a good thing can be exhausting.
Too much of a bad thing?… Well that can be downright injurious.
I am strung out.
My state is so elevated that I am unable to be in control. I am desperately searching for a place to stash these new emotions. I refuse to swallow them.
I am rash and unpredictable now. Begging for someone to take away the inner turmoil.
Begging for thread to sew up the hole that’s been ripped in my head.
I have many options here, but none seem to fit. I need to take a break. To reset. To regain control.
This means cutting out Mr. Exec.
This means cutting out all men who want something from me.
And so I go silent.
Nobody is home.
I morph and change from the she-wolf to the broken girl. I lay naked on the floor, curled in the fetal position. I am broken. Raw. Exposed.
And no one should see me like this.
I worry that my chaos has seeped through too much. That Mr. Exec has witnessed too much of the feeding frenzy. Will he begin his withdrawal? I will beat him to it. I know that as soon as he sees me at rehearsal, with my even-keel mask firmly in place, he will want another taste again. For now, all I need to do is wait.
I need to prepare myself a place to stash these errant emotions. I need to channel them. Otherwise I am not going to survive this adventure.
It is possible that I have met a new master. Someone who will teach me. Someone who will allow me to give myself over to him for careful care and consideration. Someone who will mold me.
But will he be up to the task? I will have to bare all to him. And it is often not pretty where I live.
But oh, what rewards may come….