I don’t know how you came to sex. If you came as a supplicant or a penitent. If you read manuals or drafted lists of expectations. If you chased your desire down. Or stepped right off the ledge and marveled at the fall.

I tend to be a rear view girl. Shit. I just ran over something. What the hell was it?

I tend to be under prepared. Motherfucker! Nobody brought any water on this hike?

I tend to cry after orgasms.

I used to wonder if I cried because I was broken. Exhausted little pieces of girl. If I cried because I’d made myself so vulnerable. Splayed and gutted like an animal. I used to wonder if I cried to remember that I could. I could cry. I could feel. Look at me. Broken for you. Sometimes I cried because it was scary.

Sometimes it still is. Not wrong, though. That’s the important thing. It isn’t wrong or perverted or evil. I’m not wrong or perverted or evil. I don’t know how it is for you, but it took practice for me to remember that. It took practice for me to open at my ribs and bleed and weep and come and not think of scar tissue. Loving you was easy. Loving anyone else was easy. The trick was me. I was the hardest to love.



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