She said the violence would change me and it has in ways I didn't think it would. I read the end of the book before I even start it. I've lost patience with standing in line. I shake the hand of my new neighbor and think, "I would kick his knee and while he's on the ground..." I wash laundry every day, especially my underwear. I clean my windows. Before I hang up, I hesitate - almost telling my mom that I love her.
He held the bee toy over baby's face and said, "When she smiles, it's weird." Later, she drank the bathwater. He told her to. He complained how she ate everything on her dinner plate sans complaint. "Maybe it’s autism," he snorted. I said, "Maybe she just wants to be like you." He ran screaming when he found her with a jar of stinging bees, only her swelling hand as a lid. Jerk never did know how to accept a gift.
It is 3.45am in Burbank, California, and a young man is drunk. And, predictably, horny. I've thought about fucking you in so many different ways, he croons. I'm sitting, laptop perched upon crossed legs. Some 19 hours and 7918 miles away. He is persistent this evening, begging for mere seconds of me. I talk him through but leave him unsatisfied. With the lowering of the screen, I wash my hands of this.