She showers after we do our thing because she’s not too keen on my scent. It’s the smoke that does it most, but there’s something else she can’t quite put her finger on. Scrubbing between her legs and then her neck, she turns her face to the ceiling and eats the falling water while exploring the part of her body we seem to be in a constant state of war over. When we’re at it, I tell her it’s mine, and that for as long as she lives it will be mine and mine alone. She defends herself by stating her womb is more than just an object to possess, but I pretend not to hear. Some girl I studied with back in my Uni days claimed I was a misogynist. Of course, I protested my innocence, and almost always while eyeing up her breasts I’d do my best to brush against at every opportunity. Maybe she had a point? I dunno. When I was in the midst of my depression, I would often visualise her nude body while struggling to breathe in the centre of town. There was this threshold you see. Whenever I crossed it, a panic attack would ensue, but if her spread sex glistened behind my eyes, it never got too bad. Such vibrant colours- such lucid texture. When she gets out the shower and dries herself off, I state that my fascination isn’t solely in the flesh but in birth. Death stalks, so it’s only natural that my lifeblood is in that which gives life. Placing my fingers beneath her chin, I lift her gaze to mine. What I see in those eyes are the branches of a thousand trees screaming in a storm. She tells me obsessions never materialise, but the second we merge, there’s no denying the forces that travel back and forth between our mouths. Love is never enough- there has to be conflict, and not only that but a willingness to embrace a state of mind bereft of whatever we once considered normal.