He begins to speak about the “Asian” tradition of fixing broken pottery with gold filling and relates that to dysfunctioning androids in our Socratic seminar about Dick. Is it fixed? The cracks are visibly apparent and even more pronounced with the metal that unabashedly presents itself to the world. It captivates eyes. It’s sought after and reproduced, time and time.
When you left, it felt like I had traveled back in time and landed in my mother’s womb again. Not that I remember the claustrophobic and warm sensation of being encompassed in her fluid sac, but I found my body paralyzed in the fetal position I never learned to disconnect from. The aromatic scent of my lavender lip salve usually soothes me, but this time nothing could distract me from the salty sting of droplets entering my parted lips.
I felt stupid when I reflexively opened the sea-shell-shaped jewelry box with the black velvet inner lining you gave me. A reflex I wish I had suppressed. I knew there was nothing inside. Why should there have been? A sea shell – reminiscent of primitive hunter-gatherer behavior. There’s nothing sweet about gathering the pieces that break after you’ve ravished me.
505 on repeat. “I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck.” 555. I glance at my phone. Artifice signs that I cling to in the hope that the endearing words dripping from your lips are genuine. I kneel below you in desperation, swallowing the droplets of everything I yearn to hear. Everything I wish is true.
You’ve corned me against the wall and I am slipping. Falling. Under your breath, you say “Perfect” and repeat it once more. Twice more. And again. My ears perk up, but even in my semi-conscious inebriated state, I am skeptical. When I ask you what you mean, you say my intoxicated state is perfect. I thought I was perfect. Like a child — like the child you make me feel — I call you “evil.” I do it with a cheeky grin. I’m your playmate, so I am playful. I feel terrified. I am thrilled.