What it tastes like.

Before I forget, there is Jenny.

It is not taking me long to bury the truth. It has been less than one hour and already I have hidden it in deep corners of my body. One piece, a white-warm lump of memory—this I set down gently in a narrow, vacant recess of my lungs. I have forgotten which one. Another piece, a viscous fluid inside a thin blue membrane—I cannot remember where I hid this. Behind some small organ near my stomach? In the hollow space of my pelvis?

It is easier this way. To forget these things, this truth, to bury it. There are nights of hot tears and cold beds coming and I will not let them blacken my heart. This truth does not deserve to be tarnished like that, and it does not deserve to be thrown away. And certainly, it cannot be left unwatched, roaming my mind, growing, rousing me in the night because it needs a warmer blanket or a glass of water to white wash its thirsty throat.