There was this girl a few months ago. Every Tuesday at 6:30 p.m. we would meet for a fight. I’d ram her, she’d yank my legs out from under me, we’d scream. It felt good. It hurt. I miss having bruises that I can press like a button to remind myself of my magnificent love. I love the feeling of a body that’s being used, I love the trust it takes to let someone punch me, I love the flood of endorphins letting me know I am alive. What I want is the sensuality of surrender, the afterglow of racing hearts and flushed faces and grins. I don’t want to fight with someone who might harm me, I want every blow to be a way of saying, “I love you.”

I love myself.