Terminal Lovers

I'm not often honest with myself when I write. There are hints. Grunts of menopause in the drippings of imaginary abortions. They're not dead children if we never conceived them. But inside a woman is the one place the unborn can live. That hole we carry with us everywhere we go whispering like heroin. A needle teasing a deaf vein with the sound of music.

I can't hear it, but it assures me I already have. The broken pencil cutting the paper into shreds of skin. The confetti of women he calls his paradde.

You can't tell me I've cut my hair right. Or that my clothes fit. Because everything is wrong. I become this hole I carry with me. I am this emptiness you won't fill. Not because you can't. You just don't know or are afraid to go deep enough.

Sex turns us into these monsters we can understand. The hungry appartus of flesh. But sometimes. Too often. It forgets to turn us back into people after it's done.