Follow Through

Our sex scene takes place in the prison. It is equals parts imagination-based and memory-based, and also a means of processing trauma. It is also quiet, tense, and energetic. Someone might happen upon us at any moment. It is dark, and moths find their way between the bars in the window. We try for no sound not even a whisper. Nothing but the wings of the moths filling the cell and scattering dust over us and around us. Trapped in a cell with us, their lives have less purpose than they ever did outside, where they were simply living in pursuit of something, and not knowing what. Here, they circle above us as we try to keep quiet, and try for a second baby. They start falling to the stone floor, piling up like shreds of cloth. We’ve finished, and we’re watching them. It isn’t long before their bodies reach the edge of the bed, then our bare legs, our bare chests, our necks, our filthy hair. We’re breathing the dead and living alike, trying not to speak for fear of drowning. You find my hand in the powdery mess. You find my knee, my arm, my side, my face as if you are rebuilding me piece by piece.

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