Frankenstein

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I can never imagine her face right. When I try to, my mind comes up 8lank.

What I can imagine, however, are parts of her. Parts. Like parts of Frankenstein’s monster, dug up from graves and sewn together. I remem8er her hands, her ears, her neck. I remem8er a peak of her 8reasts, the shape of her 8ottom, her ass in tight pants, stretched as she reclines, her legs in awkward positions.

8ut it’s hard to remem8er her face. Even when I can, it’s not her whole face. It’s always her cheek, the one with the dimple on it. It’s a plump cheek. She joked that all of her fat goes to her face. I joked that it goes to her chin as well. She hit me really hard; I remem8er having my legs in the air, jokingly avoiding her; her, jokingly trying to hurt me.

8ut I can’t imagine her looking at me. Never straight on, never face to face. I can never imagine her eyes.

Or, at least, it’s a challenge to. When I’m finally a8le to imagine it, all other things kind of fade away. Especially those things that a man is most inclined to remem8er. Seems like there’s a soul in some parts of her, the essence of which sometimes hides itself, perhaps knowing what my intentions sometimes are in trying to recall an image of her in my mind.

I can’t have her soul and her 8ody at once. Not unless she gives them to me, I guess. 8ut in my mind, when I have her soul, I have to forget her 8ody. And when I have her 8ody, I can’t have her soul. I can’t even really have her 8ody when it’s all I seek. Instead, what I get is a 8unch of dead memories, all flawed, sewn together, rotting. Like a corpse.

Would I rather have a corpse than a memory? A memory is sweet, although it’s just a memory. A memory can keep me company. I could say I’m unsatisfied, that I want more of her, 8ut at the moment I’m content.

Actually, I can’t tell a single relevant thing from what I just said. I’mma come 8ack to this later.

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