… Oh Mother,

The body is a pulsating white membrane, glutinous, stretched pellucid around the throat. The body is pain only, save for ghostly epidermis. The pain is woven for strangulation. Each exhale whistles through the room, stormworn schooner creaking. The body is pain. It does not diminish upon release.

But here, in the blue light, gently held: slow, no expectation (—there is always expectation), eyes averted not out of shame, but respect and precision; for once, it does not increase either.

When I sit in the terrible stillness of the bathroom, I think what I would say to the girl I am missing. It is my fault. I am not getting that back. I do not rush to claim the ways of the universe. The fault is mine.

I am not alive very often. When someone makes me feel alive, I cannot help myself. I do not think. I am not cruel on purpose, but cruelty is most usually unthinking. You made me feel awfully alive. I am sorry.

When she takes him in her mouth, I feel his breath quicken on my tongue. He holds the body’s shoulders to steady himself—I feel quite giddy at the wholeness of his pleasure. And I find, for once, that I am not seeking anything.