I hold a proof copy of my book in my hand. I open the page at any place and there is sex. Sex that I have had. Sex made concrete. Sex that I cannot wriggle away from. Flesh made word made flesh.
I have lost a wheel. I am unhinged. I am all the cliches that relate to someone who is unsettled by the world. I stomp through my friendships and I set fire to my house. The cards are dealt. I read them and I shake my head.
I have proof. I have a proof copy. I begin the weary process of worrying. Dreams of panic. I have not given in to the idea of medication. I am still feeling it, keeping it all at bay. I climb the bridge and stare over at the drop and I say, I have a proof. There is proof. I climb down again. The bridge will still be there next week, next year, some other time.
Today there is just sex in my hand and in your hand. You reading my sex. You, maybe, becoming aroused by my sex. You having sex with someone else at the instigation of my sex. This is all I can ask from you. This is all I can offer you.
For me there is this proof, and this must be enough. More than enough. I climb down from the bridge for now.