Art by Kaitlyn Anderson
I tried to imagine the taste of her skin in his mouth, him biting into a ripe plum. A thing to take and eat whole, so he did. Moments then minutes of Blackness on my computer screen. My face mirrored back at me. A warm but primal feeling between legs that I called mine. No, no, no. Pleasure is a sin reserved for those unbruised by Blackened spoiled spots — a consequence of being dropped to the viscid kitchen floor. I shut my laptop.
I’ve devolved many times since then.
Blue moonlight envelops me just as hundreds of moons had done before. I lift my hand from between the valley and examine the self-inflicted desecration. This hand is not my hand this body is not my body. Where has my body gone? I lug myself to the room where I rinse away my sins, praying that no congregant had witnessed my transgression. I avoid the reflection in the mirror who wears my face. I scrub my hands red and raw under holy water and watch the misdeed flow down the drain. I go back to bed and sink into my comforter, hoping shame will swallow me whole. Penance. I pray that He-who-sees-all was on a cigarette break when I had succumbed to temptation.
This body is not my body. I cannot find myself. It’s too Black and marred for me to see. I wish I was a soft plum for Him to gut. How else can I be of service? I cannot bear to look down there, but please, do your worst. Scoop out everything while I am still ripe. Witness syrupy red gore dribble down your fingers. Peel this skin off of me, stain your lips with sickly sweetness, douse your tongue with desire, drop me to the ground and bruise me Black, but please, for the love of God, do not force me to survive in this sinful skin any longer.
With each relapse I fall farther from the tree from which I was bore. Forgive me, Father.