It's Only Logical: A Sexual Trauma Memoir
My eyes appear in the dark, the jade encircling the noir. I maul an idea until I notice a rhythm, a pattern. My pupils focus; I see the downward motion—pushing, pulling, biting, I throw my head back, hands down, unleashing a compact bliss. My own depth darts to me, moving toward the French doors, looking for leaves that sway until the incapacitating winter. The wheat bristles wave and the leaves shake me. My mind runs to something banal as my hand runs down my body; my skin awakens. The twilight air flows in, and my mind, awake, turns toward my heart, inducing an anxious bliss that wakes me up and simultaneously kills me. To breathe at once into consciousness, an anxious flush makes way through nervous bundles and the axonal abyss, shooting stars into my heart. This rush is a shock that tumbles me into the darkness, into the woods and looking at myself while looking at everything else. The waking are startled in a hunt for green, seeking a letter that lost itself on its way to me. Like the purloined letter, I remain unaware of the message’s contents.