I write for all the usual reasons: frustrated rage, egotism, loneliness, boredom and an inability to form real relationships.
Visiting Broadmoor Hospital I don’t want much. You, of course, want much more: madness does not diminish the sex drive. I make no movement you are not alive to. I can hear the blood within you roar as we walk together across the floor to get tea. But we can never arrive. We’ve not been allowed to hold hands for five years. “No contact”, they say, like I’m a whore. I’d like to touch you with my fingertips and trace a line of me across your lips. I can no longer even think of sex: it is too much, too little. Desire pecks away at me; my love is a screech owl locked up in a cage, covered with a towel.
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House Without Mirrors (09/03/2020)
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