Who am I, you ask? I don’t know, my friend. I am all the languages I ever spoke, I am all the places I ever lived, I am all the people I ever met, I am all the women I ever loved, I am all the writers I ever read; I am all my ancestors – but at least they had the decency of never thinking of themselves as writers. Who am I, you ask? I don’t know, my friend; I don’t even know who is writing this page.
“I kept waiting for some sign of life. It wasn’t because of love that I missed him. But once you’ve shared a secret with a person, he can’t just up and die. Even then I asked myself why I went to the woods with him. To lie under his body for a while in the thick grass, kick and writhe out of my locked-up flesh, and afterward not crave his eyes even for a second - perhaps it was that.”—
I wanted love to grow back, like the grass when it’s mown down. To grow differently, if need be, like children’s teeth, like hair, like fingernails. To spring up at will, wild and untended. The chill of the sheets made me shudder, and so did the warmth that followed when I lay down.
“I want to strip you naked and see your inner self, the one you keep hidden because you think it’s not beautiful. I will transgress the rules to have you, because my desire is too strong to permit anything else.”—