by Samantha Sunshine

I try hard to create a sense of meaning in my surrounding world but as it keeps turning I am constantly reminded that nothing stays sacred forever. We are kind, gentle, and compassionate people but are we any better than the egomaniacs, the hedonists, the prostitutes, and the gamblers? If we stayed in a jar, maybe – just you and me – we could salvage those people we once were but I think we both know it’d be a farce, that we’ve outgrown this little jar and moved into bigger, more dazzling spaces that distort our perception, blind our eyes, contort our bodies, and tempt us with desire and we don’t want it to stop. I said I liked who I’ve become that night you held me close in the cold, wet, street but later I went home and caught a glimpse of myself, naked, in the mirror -- eyes heavy, cellulite around my thighs, mouth puckered, stomach fat, shoulders slouched, I can no longer put pen to paper -- and I knew I was wrong and that I wasn’t any better than all of the dry-humpers, shit eaters, and tit fuckers in this weary world. Change is inevitable, they say, and so we must learn to embrace it – but I don’t want to embrace you when you smell and taste of smoke nor after I have shed my clothes for someone, across the sea, who does not give a damn about me, my tears, or my fears. It’s the distance, I know, it’s letting us grow – apart, like separate entities, though there is no sea between you and me, you can’t argue our last fuck wasn’t mediocre or half-hearted -- we should have smoked before we started.