My Mother’s Only One

I reveal more in chat than when you accidentally insert your finger into my mouth when you’re feeding me a chocolate which they put on the saucer when you buy tea in Thornton’s. You think that this is a seductive move but your fingertip salt is a weird truffle mix, and makes me unsure of answers to later asked questions. The same question, asked in a chatroom, a video chat or just text, gets a different response. Then, there aren’t other suggestions from other people who don’t know you enough to comment but comment anyway because that’s their prerogative apparently and, then, I was impressionable like Vine Street cement, baked bread, black sand.

But in this chat, before the excuses I make on phones and in person, I basically say that I made a mistake in the lie that I told when I took back what I said really drunk to you. Because that’s exactly what I should have said, what I did say, and you shouldn’t have let me wrestle it out of your hands with such a simple Chinese-burn-trick. But you did.

So each intermittent year’s been an intermittent string of intermittently amusing messages on a messenger service, logged like a historical document, which only tells a side of the story, as history ever does. Who won?

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