Tuesday, August 21, 2012
The glove never came off because I never put it on.
My fist would not unclench.
There is no room for mere fingers, only the whole hand will do. This is how you wanted it — you pressed the back of my hand against your breastbone so I could feel your pulse through my knuckles; you told me there is a reason the heart and the fist are the same size. For the first time, I understand the older people who would sigh with their heads down and claim that whatever they did to me, it was hurting them more than they hurt me.
I didn't believe them; I believe them now.
I look at you, begging me naked for this, and I ache. But you challenged me to this, so when I slap you, it will be with my bare hand.
-- Samuel Snoek-Brown