Let me tell you a story about how I loved a boy once.
This story doesn’t have a happy ending.
Let me tell you how I almost died before I even met the boy. How I fought my way back to life for him.
This story always comes back to death.
Let me tell you about how I loved a boy before I even knew how to speak. I gave him my first words.
My father scrawled this story in a notebook in a drunken stupor while I formed my love into a deep, dark question and hurled it at him.
This story is a puzzle.
I begged him to slip love around my neck like some heavy leather noose.
This story is my scar.
The only answer was my own echo.
Love is the reverberation of my own voice refused.
This story is infinite.
My son scrawled this story in the dirt on the elementary school playground.
Love is never heavy enough.
This story always snakes back on itself.
Let me tell you a story about a black belt in your hand.
This story ends with your voice in my ear.
Do you mind implication?