Stippled

Sometimes I go online to google my name because I want to know someone out there has found me. And a little praise, yes. Of course praise. I have been practicing honesty: I like being told I am good. I do not like wearing bras on the weekends. That kind of honesty. Not the kind that admits to everything I’ve done wrong. I’m already fluent in that language of hurt. I can tell you my sins all day long if you let me. I can make guilt look like a lush winter coat, runway ready. I can make shame look like a matching handbag. I’m not afraid of questioning god or calling it other names like the guy at the library who said the electronics were talking to him, telling him to set the water free from its pipes so he did. And I believed him. Lately I’ve been listening to ASMR videos on YouTube. They whisper like they know me. I’m not lonely, but I like a voice I can replay over and over in my ears whenever I want. A voice I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to and it’s not weird. People usually want you to answer them when they talk to you, even if they don’t care what you have to say. They want to hear the echo. I spend most of my day offering echoes like flyers for a charity. On Google I find that M. Brett Gaffney fills up thirteen pages but not all of them are me. Some of them are strangers. Our name in their mouths like the man whispering stipple stipple to me, a trigger word I never knew I wanted. Like the smell of my grandmother’s perfume long after she’s forgotten exactly who I am. Please believe me when I say I love you and I can’t remember your name. Believe me when I tell you, in the smallest kiss I can pack into this broken microphone, I want you to love me back.