• Seneca Basoalto

How Do I Explain This To a Therapist

How do I explain this to a therapist? I live with the proclivity to vindicate your mouth and nullify blame for how the planes folded over our atoms.

The long lost father, husband, devirginizer, murderer — soulmate manifested from the macrocosm of sadistic axiom. Rainier to Olympus. Alki to Marañón. Into a fall that smells like summer – you teach your tendons to speak in French and make love in contempt of gravity. Pressed between the pages of an old book preserve traces of your fingerprints / this is how my body shares something in common with hand plucked Cantuta. My muscle memory reacts to you and suppresses your symptoms inside white cells – and now, I am never well.

I have kept all your secrets.

The desert republicans, cannibal, fentanyl, tumor — lovers interlaced in an argument outside an otter cage, no concept of boundaries because your ego is bigger than your fear of punishment. By definition, this love is penance, with purpose. You’ve always been persuasive without trying – a playful monster under hotel sheets with ticklish tall tales / creeping closer until partisan skins are sticky and lovesick. Your morals are resolute – then you touch me – and suddenly thirteen is an abstract concept and the beggar singing your chords bargains his life away. Any justification. Any straw your thirsty fingers can grasp.

No matter where we go, there is a current that magnetizes our dust – from Laniakea to laurel, eventually, into seven shades of rust. And the blue parts of my encumbrance drift off, roaring like bells and lost limbs searching for you in a flume / where you’ve been waiting to be swallowed by anima.

It is as romantic as it is cruel. Taking naps together on the floor / bathing away the rape of rug burn scars. Making babies while role playing incest / then aborting them because the doctors say our chromosomes aren’t compatible. I try not to think about everything you’ve done. You do dangerous things for adulation and comfort – I know this – still I can hear the voices of all my friends and every therapist telling me that it’s all nothing more than an excuse you use to defend your perverse behavior. But I know the pensive parts of you under a maudlin of truth, and the truth itself is worse than the pretext, because the truth makes me an accomplice by being your muse, inamorata, wife, fortuitous little girl. An orchid swirl from cock to thigh. That is what becomes of you when you are submissive to the one who sacrifices lucidity for idolatry and finds an escape in the playground of a name.

I grew up without a father, and as a child I wished someday I would find a man who would love me, unconditionally, with confidence and constancy — eating the ecstasy that flares off my eyelashes — I burn in the irony now.

Some people will do anything to find love, and keep love. That gospel was written in your soul before you understood what it meant to suspend yourself in time with one person. A nightmare of incendiary blindness, a whole body, deft and loosened by deathless longing. You either are kin, or you make yourself kin. In some instances – you are, regrettably, both – only recognizing your paternal stasis years after you’ve collided foreign knees with vestal progeny and spoke poetry from esoteric vows. How do you explain that the man who took your statutory virginity was the same man that married you in secret, you call him your husband and the father of your dead children, architect of your conception, best friend and soulmate — the same man who multiplied his passion into a premeditated rage and asphyxiated your lover on a bathroom floor, because he didn’t want to lose you. I ask you, Damon, "have you ever lost a thing other than me?" You forget, because you confine me to the center soul.

We look at each other and wonder “how are you still so in love with such fickle sin?” I simply open my eyes, because

I only look like you on the inside.

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