I’m starving, I realize, sitting there waiting for you to arrive. I’m hungry for you. My blood almost claws out of my skin with its eagerness. I’m restless. So fucking restless. I can’t focus, not even on you, just the lack of - of anything - and how every cell in my body is screaming for it to be filled. NOW.

The phone goes ignored. If I answer one more call I’ll lose the fragile grip on my patience. I turn it off when it starts to ring again a second later.

I’m blinking rapidly, pacing - have you seen those addicts coming down from a high? It’s something like that, and it eats at me.

I try to sit and end up standing again. I can’t explain why it angers me, but suddenly its there in my mind. My temper has awoken with a vengeance and I feel it rush through my body like fire in my blood. I grit my teeth and my brows knit together.

My palm runs along the back of my neck and I feel the tightness of the muscles. I suck in a breath and let it out slowly. Slowly.
…. ….
So, in a manner this is my apology, my love, for just how hard my fingers dug into your arm when I saw you. For not kissing you first, but instead dragging you out of that fucking room and into the hallway.

I shoved you against the wall and heard your head hit the drywall - I didn’t care, I followed you in and allowed you no space for breath before I raped your mouth, tore at your lip, clawed at your shirt. I heard your cry against my mouth, but I still dug my fingers into your thighs and I know my nails scored your hose and the skin above your hose.

I left a mark on your neck, that one you had to hide this morning with makeup and clothing. Two half circles. I saw the bruise. I saw your skin, pink from being worn by the stubble on my cheek.

I don’t think the stain is going to come out of your shirt. Or out of mine.

However, I’m only sorry for not kissing you hello…. first.

I don’t dream that often. I rarely sleep enough to escape into that world where imagination and reality mingle so freely together. That being said, as I sorted through a small box of items, looking for an old picture that my mother requested, I found a folded piece of plain notebook paper. It was aged, the edges torn, worn away. The paper itself had been crinkled and I had a memory of me balling it up moments after writing down what I’m about to tell you.

I retrieved the paper from its exile somewhere around the trash can and folded it up into neat squares. I took the time to place it in this box - the same box where I keep the priest’s rosary and the ugly wooden and worn crucifix my grandmother gave me - the one she pressed into my palm only weeks before she passed. It was a box of importance, the rare things I kept to preserve their memory in lieu of trusting to my own to care for them.

Things I’ve chosen to…not remember…if such a thing is an option.

I located the photograph and set it on the bed beside me. The paper, I unfolded slowly. The words, written by my 10 year old hand, in crisp letters of graphite, caught my eyes. It was a brief sentence.

Remember the dead cities.

And just like that, I did.

I was writing about some hot phone sex with N, but I got distracted, so thus, I offer you the following search terms for you to pick through….

Search engines sent these people here. Some are self explanatory, others…..?

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my son started cupping my breast *Not something I’m down with….
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geckos fucking *Too kinky for even me.
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dangle noose pregnant her tongue *where do I begin?

I’ve had one hell of a day.

Write? Ha. I’m going to get a bottle of whiskey…Which I will do nothing with.

In fact this entire week, well, let’s mark it down as a complete failure.

I need a vacation, Im about to go out of my fucking mind.