The Paradox of Confession

She always talked in exclamations points. Always wept in semicolons. The distance is measured in desperation she mused. As I batted a stray drop of menstruation away with my tongue. We're sceptic she said. Alone in ourselves. Stones eroding under the stroke of doubt. Lost in each other. Everything outside ourselves so massive. Genetically programmed. To mistrust. Even the most infinitesimal of pleasures. Enslaved by evolution to endure. The constant humiliation this flesh imposes upon us.

Commas, she snickered. Are for the weak. The Undecided. Who cannot bare to have an opinion. That pale agnostic love that turns women into whores. And penises into daggers.

I like the question mark. Better than all those others. It's fierce. And unapologetic as it satirizes the feeble pursuits of flesh. It makes statements that cannot be disputed. As it always leaves us with the choice. Whether or not to believe.

She scribbled the number in the sand. Her fingers rabid with the images. Of the sharp fangs on angels. The soft wings on demons. Partial windows. Open equations. Calculating men. She sighed quietly. Into the sweater he had bought for her. Sure it would fit someone. Just not her.

Counting backwards. A manic cartoon notepad. The pages flipping too fast. Reading the words out loud. To deaf listeners. As the army of numbers closed in on when. This machine was still sufficient. To explain. The gap. Between how close we've come and and how far away it's gotten.

It's only time she says. A sad magician. Capitalizing on on our weakest moments. To make everything disappear again.

What I want and what I need. That is where I lose them.