The truth is, I am lazy. I won’t feel like washing my sheets. And I know within twenty-four, I won’t be able to sleep. Thinking of the radical chemical compounds soaked into my Egyptian cotton. like a foreigner’s blood on un-sacrificed holy land.
But even if I did, I think it might offend. Because I would remember your name only five years down the road, driving down packed dirt on autopilot where twenty minutes ago I made a mental list of all the men I have slept with and you burst into my recollection with an adrenal jolt of demanding acknowledgement.
and I’ll laugh to myself because Society tells me I should be (ashamed).