05-20-08| 2:12 am
After we have made love, and he is on the verge of sleep, he reaches for my hand, slides his fingers through mine. I start to cry. I am stupidly, foolishly in love with a man who only loves me back in unconsciousness. As if that is any kind of love at all.
In my heart, it is both delightful and terrible. And so these tears are of delight and of terror. They burn my eyelids.
I only cry when he sleeps. He thinks he has made me cry while fighting with me--those tears were inconsequential, pure frustration. The curse of the Y chromosome. Next to him, when his breathing evens and his body slips away from mine, I let go. Hot, silent tears trace paths down my face and soak the sheets. When I say only, I mean it. This is roulette: always risking that he may wake up. He may find out how deep these aches inside of me go.
There is madness in my blood. That is my secret.