I got a letter from my father. I thought he wanted nothing to do with me,that he hated me, like my Mother always said. I never knew him. I barely remember him. All I have ever had that he gave me was life and my dog, Scooter. I want to call him, to know him, to love him but I'm afraid.
My mother told me once that I was evil, that I'd been created in lust and one day I'd be consumed by the desires of the flesh. We'd go into the parlor, kneel and pray, the rosary rough in my hands. Ten Hail Mary's for me, ten Bloody Mary's for mom. Hail Mary, full of grace. Thanks for the food, let's feed our face.
Mother wept.
I wept.
Jesus wept.
I finished a painting today. Then I took a matte knife and sliced through the picture. I've lost the feel for the paint. It no longer speaks to me, telling me where to move my brush, how to fill the canvas, to create.
The first boy I kissed was David O'Malley. I was thirteen. David was sixteen and the star of the High School wrestling team. One hundred and fifty-two pounds of heaven. David would drive the two of us out to the woods behind the school where we'd work on our moves. David on top, then me. Orgasmic rough-housing, our naked bodies gleaming with sweat. The fall air couldn't chill the heat we gave off. The smell of our sex filled those woods. We couldn't get enough. We'd go out there everyday after he'd finished with practice. Sometimes we'd go camping on the weekends. Sharing one sleeping bag. Never leaving the tent. I wanted to stay out there forever. I still do.
