My words are released into the atmosphere, where they quickly dissolve. Or, if they reach someone’s ears, they are misinterpreted. They are twisted into shapes that lose their intended meaning.
I will not offer up my head to Cory. The guillotine is out of fashion, and that road is miles behind me. We fight as if it’s the only way to communicate. So, I hide my relationship from those I know, fearing it will not survive long.
Count the times I waved goodbye to Joseph C., while looking up at him with unadulterated adolescent admiration. Count them.
Count the times I turned away from Abraham, only to chase him down with my meth-beat footsteps. Clank, clunk, count them.
Count the times I swore there would be no more of this, no more of that. Count them.
I repeat this pattern with Cory.
“Turn your back, or I will,” I say, meaning it, mostly.
Men could say, with some truth, that they suffer at my side. I deal a blow or two, but I deal myself those with most force.