You're always there for me.
From when I don't need you.
Especially when I don't need you.
But when my world is crumbling beneath me, you’re there. When the rain is relentlessly pouring, drowning me—you’re there. When all of the air is seemingly sucked out of the room and it feels as though I can’t breathe, right or wrong, you are there for me.
Silver and rusted and dull from too much use. I shouldn't want you. I shouldn't need you. You're no good for me.
But I'm hurting. And I'm so lost. And lonely. And afraid. And here you are: my dull, rusty friend.
I ignore the knock at the door and I undress completely, because that is our ritual. If we do this, we're both naked. Me out of my clothing; you out of your protective case.
You don't ask questions. You don’t need to know the whys and the how’s of my pain. You simply know how to make it go away. You give me what I need.
It's always awkward, holding you just the right way. When you kiss me, it can't be too deep. Because then it gets “messy”. And “messy” leads to questions I’m not quite ready to answer.
So I hold you at this uncomfortable angle, place you on my hip, and let you kiss your way up the side of my body. My eyes close, rolling into the back of my head. I can’t control myself. I allow a moan to escape deep from within my throat. A long thin line of bright red blood spurts from my skin. My clit twitches and just like that: you almost make me come.
Greedy, hungry for more, I move you over two inches to the left and let you kiss me again. This time it’s a little bit longer. This time it’s a little bit deeper. The blood flows much more freely this time. It's not nearly as orgasmic as the first cut, but hypnotic all the same.
Yet another knock on the door breaks the trance. I toss you on the counter with arrogance, as if to say, "I don't need you anymore,"—at least, not right now. I’m good now. I snatch a few yards of toilet paper off the roll and lightly tap away at the blood that cascades down my leg.
It feels traitorous. Like I'm doing something wrong by wiping away your bloody kisses.
I dress quickly, wincing in pleasure as my open cuts rub against my snug dress. I touch up my makeup and flush the bloody paper down the toilet. I pick you up, holding you against the light. I press you to my lips, but not too deeply. This isn't that kind of kiss. Still covered with bits of my
flesh and blood, I put you back in your protective casing and slide you into the cup of my bra, right next to my heart.
The knocking has turned into a relentless pounding and then the door is suddenly sprung open by an elderly nun. She shakes her head, silently chastising me for what I know are all of the wrong reasons. She grabs me by the elbow and ushers me from the bathroom. She’s spry for an old lady—strong, too—and pushes me up to the pulpit with ease even though I’m fighting her every step of the way.
I can't help but glance down at the closed mahogany box that holds the body of my father. A father I never really knew. I want to feel something now, but I am numb and cold and empty. My emotions aren't right. I can tell by looking at the wailing mourners sitting in the pews. I dig my hand deep into my hip. I can feel wetness seeping through my black dress. The pain from the vestige of a dull bladed kiss soothes me.
My eyes well with tears.
That's better.
Smearing traces of my blood across the paper, I neatly unfold my father's eulogy, and begin.
From when I don't need you.
Especially when I don't need you.
But when my world is crumbling beneath me, you’re there. When the rain is relentlessly pouring, drowning me—you’re there. When all of the air is seemingly sucked out of the room and it feels as though I can’t breathe, right or wrong, you are there for me.
Silver and rusted and dull from too much use. I shouldn't want you. I shouldn't need you. You're no good for me.
But I'm hurting. And I'm so lost. And lonely. And afraid. And here you are: my dull, rusty friend.
I ignore the knock at the door and I undress completely, because that is our ritual. If we do this, we're both naked. Me out of my clothing; you out of your protective case.
You don't ask questions. You don’t need to know the whys and the how’s of my pain. You simply know how to make it go away. You give me what I need.
It's always awkward, holding you just the right way. When you kiss me, it can't be too deep. Because then it gets “messy”. And “messy” leads to questions I’m not quite ready to answer.
So I hold you at this uncomfortable angle, place you on my hip, and let you kiss your way up the side of my body. My eyes close, rolling into the back of my head. I can’t control myself. I allow a moan to escape deep from within my throat. A long thin line of bright red blood spurts from my skin. My clit twitches and just like that: you almost make me come.
Greedy, hungry for more, I move you over two inches to the left and let you kiss me again. This time it’s a little bit longer. This time it’s a little bit deeper. The blood flows much more freely this time. It's not nearly as orgasmic as the first cut, but hypnotic all the same.
Yet another knock on the door breaks the trance. I toss you on the counter with arrogance, as if to say, "I don't need you anymore,"—at least, not right now. I’m good now. I snatch a few yards of toilet paper off the roll and lightly tap away at the blood that cascades down my leg.
It feels traitorous. Like I'm doing something wrong by wiping away your bloody kisses.
I dress quickly, wincing in pleasure as my open cuts rub against my snug dress. I touch up my makeup and flush the bloody paper down the toilet. I pick you up, holding you against the light. I press you to my lips, but not too deeply. This isn't that kind of kiss. Still covered with bits of my
flesh and blood, I put you back in your protective casing and slide you into the cup of my bra, right next to my heart.
The knocking has turned into a relentless pounding and then the door is suddenly sprung open by an elderly nun. She shakes her head, silently chastising me for what I know are all of the wrong reasons. She grabs me by the elbow and ushers me from the bathroom. She’s spry for an old lady—strong, too—and pushes me up to the pulpit with ease even though I’m fighting her every step of the way.
I can't help but glance down at the closed mahogany box that holds the body of my father. A father I never really knew. I want to feel something now, but I am numb and cold and empty. My emotions aren't right. I can tell by looking at the wailing mourners sitting in the pews. I dig my hand deep into my hip. I can feel wetness seeping through my black dress. The pain from the vestige of a dull bladed kiss soothes me.
My eyes well with tears.
That's better.
Smearing traces of my blood across the paper, I neatly unfold my father's eulogy, and begin.
