9 Stuck

I’m stuck. Stuck like two halves of a piece of duct tape that have been pressed together by passionate hands.

Passionate hands that were once used to touch someone you loved, but are now just used to create a concrete lock between two halves of a single piece of duct tape.

Duct tape that had, at one time, been manufactured only in a uniform, battleship gray color, but which is now just as likely to be festooned with nearly any imaginable character or pattern. Duct tape, which is often referred to as duck tape and is most commonly used to make a complete mess.

A complete mess is what I am most days. The façade I wear like a too-thick sweater on the hottest day of the Fall. My mess is of my own making and was, at some distant time, completely avoidable.

Completely avoidable is the burning feeling of shame in my face. I can’t quite keep the grimace from my smile when confronted with the facts of the situation.

The situation which was once fluid and so full of promise, but which now seems impossibly beyond my control.

My control is something I keep missing from my former life. I’m readily feeling my, once passionate hands, stuck together, kissing only each other and I’m stuck. Both hands tied together with duct tape like some TV hostage. Literally stuck to myself, as if that will allow some special insight into the whys. But there is no light between these passionate hands. Just duct tape glue and the dread of the tape eventually being pulled off.