Confessions XIII


I’m not in love with him. But I love sex. Finger, rub and kiss. This isn’t sex. Sometimes you have to sacrifice the things you love for other things you love.

I love lying side-by-side, holding hands, staring at the cracked mirror in the ceiling. I don’t know what he sees, but I see disjointed parts of ourselves, mostly of myself as when your eyes are drawn to yourself in photos, no matter who else is in the photo – even your lover.

I don’t expect this to turn into love because we don’t have sex.

I re-imagine many things. Mom banging brother’s head against the kitchen tile. He had forgotten to clean his room. Because he was a boy, he had his own room.

The janitor at my school whacking a trapped hummingbird to death with a broom in our classroom. He could have just sat there and waited instead, with the windows and doors open.

Dad crying with no tears coming out.

Our disjointed body parts are like pieces to a puzzle you can put back together in a variety of different ways. I like it better this way.

It’s somehow soothing just knowing the parts are there in the mirror in the ceiling.

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