September 2010
28 posts
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I always read your letters alone. Written by hand on pale yellow paper, sent in envelopes marked with only my name, they were good letters. Grounding letters.
Letters that reminded me of love.
But never spoke of it.
That’s how we were.
For those three long years of our correspondence, we were always writing between the lines. Playing with each other.
With your wife.
With time.
Too...
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His hand was on my back as he told me to inhale.
Fire.
Flames.
Moving.
I was coughing and couldn’t breathe, pushing his hand and running.
A bathroom spinning.
On his couch, I felt his arm surrounding my body, breath on my neck and face.
Laughter. My own.
“You know I can’t,” I said.
His bed.
My face in his freezer, searching for sweetness.
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It was cold behind the bushes. She crossed her arms over her legs again and stared between the needles.
Laughter. Girls.
She felt the blades of grass slipping between her fingers as she tugged, uncertain how to make physical strain outweigh emotional pain. All she knew was that the minor act of destruction felt good.
That the destruction she wrought on her heart, too, was satisfying.
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