I write about everything I never speak. The parts of me that I wipe on the welcome mat when I walk into my mother’s house. But the filth is so integrated with my flesh that if I ever got clean nothing would be left of me.

Do you remember when I wanted that?

I think part of them wanted it too, but it’s not like the angel of death is awake any longer. I think she went to sleep the moment I woke up. It’s not like I could have slept any longer. So I have only my mother to reprimand this body. Contempt and contemplation are the same things in different fonts (but my mother never was one to ponder, was she?) 

If this body could talk, I think she would scream. Beg apologies from me, like the sun does when it eclipses in the sky. And the brooke of my tongue would bubble with apols, in that nice pacifying way where we both know nothing will change, but it sounds nice. I think I sound nice, on paper, I mean. I always made a better preposition than a person. I love you like you love the idea of me. 

I can change my name but I could never change you, body. I need not tell my sins, for this body displays every transgression. Body forgive me. I am sorry for every lagoon that was not water and every breath that was barely air. It’s not you, it’s me, I promise. You were the right shoe but I have two left feet. You carried me when no one else cared for me, yet you are the part of me I wipe on the welcome mat. Body forgive me. I remember how that mat tasted like blood. It’s not mine any longer but that doesn’t make it any less red. I’m sorry. But it’s not like I could have slept any longer.

Do you remember when I wanted that?