Foxes dart though the midsummer night air, streaks of color against a pale, blank, blemish-free background. A painter's dream, a perfectionist's nightmare.
I watch this, through my bedroom window, locked tight against the elements. My door is locked against something much worse. I turn, to be faced with (once again) everything I pretended to be. And I'm not sure if it's worse to be loved for someone you aren't, or to be hated for being who you are. The latter, I suppose, although lies can twist and turn in their wounds. I wonder if I could finally be free again, after this harsh time, and if I could flee and hunt throughout the woods, like the foxes I see outside of the windowpanes.
And it occurs to me that I might just be avoiding something.
Something that's certainly not avoiding me.