Wiping my face and sucking on a cigarette, I glimpse a lynching on the streets of a Brazilian Favela, and the sight of man’s inhumanity to man is enough to take my mind off how much I want to see her suffer. Well, at least for an hour or so. As some slum kid is being hacked up by a group of machete-wielding punks wearing pussy flip-flops, I drink from the bottle and think of her eyes, and oh, how much I miss gazing into those eyes with her kneeling before me looking up like butter wouldn’t melt. Gasping for air, I can taste her lips and see the lines on the palms of her outstretched hands, and they let me know that she’s still real and that despite my madness, I’m able to tell the difference between these realities that pull me in every direction. As someone punctures the kid’s stomach with a screwdriver as he writhes around in a pool of the red stuff, some other works on his head before twisting it off and raising it to the sun. Tossing it into the road a few seconds later, it’s kicked around like a football as a group of nearby women dance and whistle in mock celebration. Appalled yet tickled by such acts of devilry, I see myself running my hands through the curls of her hair. I can smell each strand, and each strand tells a story I’ll never be able to write because the magic is hers and hers alone. Sticking out her tongue, she’s blinking away the sweat and ready for what I have to give. Shouldn’t go back. Should never go back. But when she gets beneath my skin, no amount of alcohol or death can rid me of her, because she’s a part of me in a way no one else will ever come close to being. What a bitch. What a monster, but truth be told I’d rather suffer at her hands than be neglected because who wants indifference? Who wants safety when you could be caught in the storm of the one who makes you wake in the middle of the night with a quickened heart and a desire to destroy what you once clung to so obediently?