A Thinning Memory

By Jeanique Tucker, '07

I wanted to crawl into his skin and rest there. To feel his nerves pinch parts of me that had laid dormant for years. I wanted to consume him in the most religious of ways. I once loved someone. And no love story or sonnet had prepared me for the indescribable hunger. I crumbled under the weight of wanting him and rebuilding myself remains a quiet obsession. Between you and I, my talent is getting over him. Each time I do it, successfully ridding myself of his scent, I congratulate myself. I am told that great people are born out of difficult moments. And so within the safety of clichés and self-assurances, I’ve lost my love for him. And it is emptying. It is emptying to learn how to walk again. But falling and having to do it for a second time cripples you in a way that leaves you limping, no matter how great a talent you may be.

Mafia. It was playing when we met. We must have been fated for a painful narrative. With each declaration of taking heat and riding hard, Kelis had convinced me he was to be mine. And he was, briefly. In this cessation of time we became fluid and I lost my intellect, my identity. I climaxed. When I crashed he was in the fetal position and we didn’t exist. Never existed. I had imagined our reciprocal obsession. I cleansed myself of him then. And I keep cleansing myself hoping that soon enough there won’t be a trace of him.

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