Lacunae

I dreamt last night that someone broke me open and inside I was as hollowed out as a chocolate egg. The kind that always disappointed me as child when I cracked them open and there was nothing delicious inside. I woke up thinking of you and wondering how disappointed you might eventually be with me.

I used to close my eyes in the shower and I was always afraid that when I opened them I would no longer be me. I imagined that I could be washed out of my skin easily. I seem like something as impermanent as pen ink. I wrote your name once on the palm of my hand, thinking it was one way to not lose you in my dreams. In my sleep, the ink got rubbed away, onto the bed sheets, and now your name is blurred and I only find it when I slide under the covers.

There is a story I tell, occasionally, about the time I got lost in the hills behind my parents house. It was a funny, impossible place to get lost. I knew that as long as I kept walking towards the sun I’d hit home eventually, but still it felt like I’d never make it back. The way I tell it though is as a joke.

Once I wanted to touch your hand. I thought it might feel like static electricity if static shocks could feel good. I thought it might feel on my skin the same way that certain stories feel in my head—like pleasant shivers bluzzing out everything else.

If I tell you that I’m willing for you to break me open, would you? I’m curious about what you might find.

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