My own boy
I had no idea how long it had been since that telephone call. Unaware that catatonic stupor had vanquished me, I lay motionless fending off the incessant reverberations of your voice. And then you texted me. Don't you love me any more? you asked.
When I was sane I was sure I had lost my capacity for love. I even looked at that portrait I have of you and listened to Sweaters every morning and compulsively sang along: I no longer love the way you hold your pens. And pencils. I no longer love. It. Your mouth. Your eyes. The way you hold your pens. And pencils. I no longer love. You.
The message was fake, of course. Like everything else. Within seconds of my apparent relapse, I knew the message had been sent by a nurse, or a demon, that stole your phone to cure me, or to accelerate the course of the disease. Nevertheless, the descent of the bell jar can no longer be stopped: I look forward to holding you again; I cannot wait to taste the colour of your semen; I jump for joy at the prospect of orgasming inside you.
Esther would have been proud of me.