I always want to write when I shit. Something about losing what is wasteful….what no longer serves my body gives my mind the freedom to welcome thoughts.
This is not my toilet. This is the shitting spot of a stranger who became a lover over the past few days. It’s midsummer and the sun is in its giving era.
I fell asleep in this stranger’s arms, socketed into place like a missing joint. There was food. There was a movie. There was early-morning cuddling and hushed laughter.
The side of a leg against mine in the back of a taxi. Nobody moves. A look from across the room. A raised eyebrow. That stupid little smirk. “Taste this.” Songs sent at two in the morning. Dancing where people could see us. Laughing when we should probably shut the fuck up. Sitting close when there is plenty of space. Sharing food. Sharing books. Our handwriting meeting in the margins. Falling asleep on the couch and waking up still touching. The fan chopping at the hot air above us. A dog barking somewhere down the road. Music travelling over somebody’s wall. We started saying things we usually keep behind our teeth. Started getting quiet without it becoming awkward. Then there was that night. Sweat at the back of my neck. Music low. The stranger’s hand finding mine like it had done it before.
I am sitting above all this shit.
There is chemistry, but I must burn the lab down. I must pack my shit up and go.
I heard someone in a taxi heading to the city say that if their child dies and they find out the child had been with someone they disapproved of, they’d fuck up the corpse just to make sure they were dead.
I think about all the warnings and the mythic-level cautionary tales about where I am in this moment. I guess my eyes and heart have been overgrown by the perceived filth.
But this is the purest I’ve felt.
I am not holding my breath to ensure my spine isn’t too lean. I’m not performing shit to please anybody. I am not cursing or swearing or pretending to like sports. I am not the expectations handed down to me.
I am sitting on this stranger’s toilet happy.
Happy to be seen. Happy to breathe. Grateful life has been good to me.
I wipe my ass. Get up. Flush. And return to the warmth of another body.
It’s Monday
This is my communion
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