Kissing Myself

I watch as the apartment door closes behind Chiara, my former girlfriend. I had been crying a little while before, while she was here, and now, all alone in my apartment, I start to cry again. The reasons for my tears are many. Part of me misses spending time with her, enjoying the unexpectedness of the moment and the simplicities of life. Part of me misses looking into her eyes and holding her face while we make love. Part of me misses how I feel around her: light, joyful, and inspired. Part of me is grateful for our time together and to still have her in my life. Part of me knows I am not lucid – remembering only our good times. And although a part of me still wants to be with her, another part of me does not. It has been almost two years since we broke up, and as I look down at the dark wooden table, stained from my tears, I think about all she is, leaving little room to examine myself, and all, that I am. I think about blocking out my memories of her – the source of my pain – but the thought of doing so makes me feel weak. If I try to suppress these memories, I will be suppressing myself, and everything I have become. My memories with Chiara will always be a part of me – my past is inseparable from my present. I am relieved by this thought, and I allow my pain to hold me, falling backwards into its arms. My tears become a river, my wails become a lullaby, and my body dances – sometimes moving violently, other times softly, but always true. Soon my arms are tired, and they rest upon the table. My face, longing to be close to my arms, presses itself against them, and my arms, upon feeling the river still flowing from my eyes, drink from their waters. My lips also look to nourish themselves, and do so by kissing my arm. Here, while kissing myself, something unexpected happens: Chiara vividly appears in my mind’s eye. Confused, I kiss myself again, on a different part of my arm, and again I see Chiara. No matter where I kiss myself, I only see her. But how could this be? How could I only see her when I kiss myself? My mind scrambles for an answer, and suddenly it appears, accompanied by a devastating realization: this was the first time I have kissed myself. The pain from a lifetime of self-neglect drops upon my chest with a crushing weight. I have kissed Chiara, and previous partners, and my friends, and my family, and even strangers – but never myself. Most of my life I could not bear to look at myself without disgust, let alone think about an act of self-love, like a kiss. And now, as I am kissing myself for the first time – like I am kissing someone for the last time – my mind only shows me sketches of Chiara, because when she kissed me, that’s how she kissed me; she was the one who showed me I was worthy of love. I continue to press my lips against my skin, while water flows through them and around them, and I begin to apologize. I apologize for the self-loathing, the disgust, the anger, and the resentment. My fingertips slowly move down my arm and onto my palm, feeling the marks of a body that has always been at war with itself. But today, a seed has been planted, and as I sit alone, kissing myself, and caressing myself, I know what I must do for the seed to grow.