Memoir is pain. Its keyboard spreads open in darkness, naked, and alone. Each key a needle. My fingertips tap, tap, tap, drawing blood, and with each tap a tiny tear forms, squeezed to the surface, pooling in the corners of my eyes. Green eyes that once were blue, afraid to look at my face in a mirror when I was a teen. Then it overflows, the pain,  those hot tears drip down my cheeks, one by one, falling like whispers in the dark from old lovers. Men I hardly knew, who never knew me but thought thery did, and some women, and one who knew me, whom I loved. The memory roaring like a river, water splaying on ragged rocks, tossing and churning under wet sheets of ice. I am hot then cold. Too cold to write. I shiver and sometimes shudder at the thought of tap, tap, tapping those keys with my raw fingertips. I go to the keyboard anyway, the way I approached my life, with guarded enthusiasm. Maybe someday, I will find me in those tears emptied on blank pages, and not be alone. Utterly and completely, alone.



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