Glutted yesterday.

I found myself in a cryptogenic location.

There wasn’t a soul around for miles. It was the kind of hypothetical place where trees fall and sounds are a mystery.

I spread a blanket on the grassy bank and remove my osculant clothing.

The cicada’s song was think and it wrapped like a cover filled with down, making  the impossible heat even more unlikely to carry.

The fresh water circulated and splashed nearby. I rolled my hips back and pushed my shoulder blades deep into the ground, imagining they were as sharp as the blade of a spade, that I was cultivating soil.

The humidity turned my heavy, mostly straight hair into thick curls around my face. There was something honest in the strangulating heat, something like heavy lace, creating a respected breath, gasp, proving your humanity, your life. All gentle violations and whispered apologies.

Hours prior to this remote sunbath I found myself crying in the condiment aisle of the loacal market. I don’t believe I could have found a more depressing location if I tried. Surrounded by petite jars and bottles of things that aren’t meant to be enjoyed alone. Things that are only complete when with something else. Things that by themselves have no meaning and are overlooked as they sit on the shelves of your refrigerator.

The rest of the shop was spent avoiding eye contact from my elders. As I placed the tomatoes, the olive oil, the oranges and grapes into the cart, tears that I couldn’t contain ran quickly, escaping down my cheek. As quick to flee the moment as I felt.

The ride home was a quiet and uncomfortable thing. The images, the terrorizing memories, were flashing so quickly that it seemed I was driving through inundatory rains. Absent mindedly, I turned on the windshield wipers.

When I finally managed to pull in the driveway, making sure to accelerate up the hill, I realized where all of this came from. How the disagreement spiraled into a harsh fight. I love segues, but it isn’t often that I recognize them within my own self.

So, I turned off the wipers.

Eventually I came to say, after the many falters, hesitations, and short sobs and gasps, “You know… It’s… It’s hard to accept something… Anything… Especially from a male… When… When as a child the male would punish you harshly for it… With his words… Hands…. Lashes… Be… Because you had basic human needs. The child… was always wrong… was always the one to blame. I think… I may project that… onto you. I… I haven’t seen that…. Until now.”

And I gave myself fifteen seconds to sob it out before cutting it off and throwing it into the stale garbage.

I put the groceries where they belonged and I drove off, because I wasn’t sure I could stay still, or stand the quiet of the safe home.

The rest…

History.