“The only goodnight kiss I would receive came from the bright burst of headlights as he pulled out of the motel parking lot. Each raw knee, puffy with the negative imprints of the carpet’s braided teeth. Only the sink has hot water. No point in showering when sweat is no longer sweat. You can no longer see his pulse’s splatter across the palette. The paint is a different color when it dries. It’s like he was never here. The gift was rewrapped. A garland of meat, unstrung. The glass is full. Again. Again. The mouth, a clean gutter. The body, a buffed wall. This never happened. The botched deconstruction, tooth by tooth, each growing back. Smile digging its way out of a pink grave. Everything is fine. Nothing is gone.”
— Hieu Minh Nguyen, “Christmas Eve, 17“ (via letters-to-nobody)
