I desperately want to trust you.
You started in my brain as a white sheet, wafts of laundry detergent and still warm from the dryer. Maybe you’ve got a stray sock hidden in one of your corners. And back then, the sock seemed so funny, and god, how we’d laugh about it.
How’d it even get there, silly girl?
Then that damn sock grew and folded into a lacy thong – someone else’s, yes I know it’s not mine, don’t take me for a fool. My tongue dries up, hangs heavy in my jaw. I turn the thong over and over and over and over in my hands, trying to find an angle, any angle, at which it still looks like what is was, the sock, it still needs to be the sock.
But the sheet has already been soiled by someone else’s pleasure, the hands that console me covered in the same.
Understand me when I say that we can’t turn the clock back, the sock back.
Fix this before I need to because I can’t.
Please save us from ourselves.