I flipped through lasts months’ entry in my journal. The yellow unlined pages were marked with more wishes than memories. Wishing to hold you. To have you look at me with puzzled almond eyes. There were entries about desire and having you in between my thighs. On the 17th I needed you inside of me, even if it was just mindless ramming and leaving me before sunrise. It was amazing how you had put your hands on every girl but me.
Now I just want to tear out those thick yellow pages, rip them in strings like pieces of memory from a pensive. I’m ashamed of what my fingers did, how they scribbled obsessively; in the same rhythm they would want to trace every other girl’s lipstick off your lips. I’m ashamed of my obsessive creation, just like the first man created by Wak, in an Ethiopian myth my grandmother often told. Man, after seven years in the ground found a woman created from his blood. I imagined how he would bite her skin while making love to taste back a little of himself, to taste his own blood. He probably had one too many love bites and they had 30 children. Man being ashamed of having so many children hid half of them. Wak perhaps out of anger turned man’s hidden children into animals and demons. I tore out 15 pages hoping you would someday haunt me.