December 23rd, Year of the Corpse

I can recite a spell from the Book of the Dead a thousand times over, and that still won’t bring back the parts of my life I wish to relive, only to correct.

I cannot say why I worked so hard at maintaining a sexual innocence in my relationship with Joseph. Perhaps it was because everything about us, and how we relate to each other, is so deeply flawed and corrupt. If I could find a way to keep one thing pure, then nothing would prevent me from doing so. Or, perhaps it is because I never felt much desire for him. The Corpse’s hands have always been too warm, too heavy. His body, too thin. His skin, too soft.

Last night, shortly after he told me that he lacks any motive to change, and certainly after I understood that nothing was holding us together, that innocence died at the stake. Like a miserable housewife, falsely accused of being a witch, but embracing a fate better than spending any more time with her husband, it burned away silently. I fucked Joseph with an almost resignation. As if this was supposed to happen, and I lacked any choice in the matter. At times, as if this would somehow create a reason to hang on.

He said I remind him of a twig that cannot find meaning detached from her tree, and I don’t know what that means. Then, for the first time in our history, he raised his voice at me, though I cannot recall what came out of his mouth. I walked away from him shortly after. I wanted to walk for an eternity. I wanted to recite a spell from the Book of the Dead, and prove myself wrong.

December 23rd, Year of the Corpse

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