Intrusive
She wants to know how long it has been since I last was with a man. It is healthy, she says. Are you afraid it will be awkward afterwards? Are you afraid he is going to tell people? It’s not a big deal.
I am not afraid of these things. I’m not afraid others will know. I will know, and that will be enough. Why does she want to know these intimate details about me?
I really liked him, I say, but I was not in love with him. He is one of my fondest memories. ‘But did you guys kiss and other stuff?‘ Why must she know, why must she ask. I feel her pulling at my clothing, every time more aggressive. I do not wish to share myself with her. Not even my dearest, oldest friends would hack away at me, looking for such answers. I tell her nothing. I wish she’d stop. I wish she’d go away.
His eyes look at me from my memories. His eyes tell me he is child to the night. I did not know when I first looked at him... he is forbidden.











