Elle

There's no evidence here of an empty canvas.

Before me is only a tainted one with irreversible scrapes and bruises; I call them memories.

My story, written before me for the world to see through the street-side window is a mere embarrassment of mishap, mispronunciation, and misunderstood soliloquies that got me no further than the door, and interested in no other destination but his bed.

The dance, our dance, perfectly choreographed, was God's way of telling me "Elle, it's time to go!"

It was beautiful.

It made sense to no one, but it made sense to us.

The day she kicked me out was the day I never felt more liberated. It was embraced.