The Morning

A Confession of Love and Fear

Jasmin,

I used to think silence was control. It’s not. It’s just hoarding.

You were right in Professor Hale’s office. I was running a script. It’s easier to be a “priestess” than a person, because priestesses don’t have to pay rent or apologize or admit they’re terrified of being boring.

I classified everyone. Lena was a supplicant (Subject A). Sasha was a mirror (Subject B). I put them in boxes so I didn’t have to deal with the messy reality of their actual bodies. But you refused the box. You looked at me and asked what I was afraid you’d name me.

I was afraid you’d name me “ordinary.”

Because if I’m ordinary, and you still leave, I can’t blame it on the burden of being a god. I just have to accept that I wasn’t enough.

Cotton stopped. Her hand cramped. The words looked ugly on the page—scrawled, slanted, crossing the margins. She scratched out the word god with a violent zigzag.

I thought intimacy was a transaction. I give you an experience; you give me worship. But that night in the library, when you asked me to stay, you didn’t want an experience. You just wanted company. You wanted someone to sit on the floor and eat stale crackers with.

That terrified me more than the sex.

I’m leaving this here because I can’t say it to your face without turning it into a speech. I’m trying to stop making speeches.

I am here. I am trying. I am yours.