Fulfilling every white trash stereotype.

Almost overnight, as cells divided and capsules of previously-unknown emotion broke open, I became transformed. I took on new titles, foreign names like 'mother', 'fiancee', 'lover'. The years behind me suddenly became a blur of fractioned time and wasted stories, a culmination of experience that was inevitably leading up to this moment. Do I feel different? In certain ways. In the mornings when it's still dark and I watch you with weighted eyes, feel your lips barely touch my forehead, hear your voice whisper, "Goodbye, gorgeous." I feel lucky then, like someone who has won the lottery after years of just making do. I feel different, like I've been poured into a new mould and I'm still hardening, pieces of me are still shifting in this new skin, trying to make space. The iridescence of spent days is not as bright as it once seemed. Somehow, drowning my blood in booze and writhing from bar to bar with a fiendish, unsatiable urge isn't as glamourous as it was before. For once, I'm force-fed the reality of my waning selfishness and it feels good to swallow it. I can keep it down because I know I have to. I still tiptoe between the two lives fighting for room in my consciousness, but now I lay a small ribbon between them to make their stark differences clear as still water. It's like the line that has drawn my friends apart from the people I thought were friends. Reactions bring out their true colours, and I can discern the loyal from the fair-weather companions. Are they scared? Shocked? Disappointed? Some just won't be able to see me in any other role than what I was before. Which is fine. I have everything I waited for and never thought I would get. I have a promise and a gift that could have only come from higher ground. God is still as ethereal as ever, but bits of him keep poking out of the shadows, forcing me to live directly in this second, encased in what has been and what will be. It's a comfortable, yet blindingly unstable platform to live on. And I will live on.