I kept this memory of you because I was poor and hungry with nothing to eat. I kept this memory of your face bathed in the refrigerator’s white light. Buzzing. Unwavering. I kept this memory because I wanted to tell you something without confessing anything. I just wanted you there. Kept. Under the white light. Sterile and surgical in your self destruction. Precise. There, in the middle of the night. Fridge magic. There, to take all your problems away, to offer you new ones. I kept this memory of you, because it’s a memory of me too. There, under the refrigerator’s light. With some childish guilt. With some ancient hunger. There, I kept something. I caught it with my hands. The light. The memory. I kept this memory for when my fridge is empty. I don’t want to die. I want you to remember. Me, under the refrigerator’s light. Me, empty. Me, staring into emptiness. Hungry and poor with nothing to eat. I want you to keep this memory of me keeping this memory. I want you to keep it for when you’re hungry.
In my mind, I'm still there. There, under the refrigerator's white light. Watching your jaws open and snap shut like a trap. Mouth being invaded by an expired shame. Teeth tearing everything apart with ruthless precision. Saliva breaking down and disintegrating everything you’ve ever loved, and chocolate cake too. Everything is forced down your esophagus, a relentless muscular conduit, where peristaltic waves, like cold, mechanical squeezes, drive it toward your stomach. An acidic inferno. I kept this memory because I love you. Even as everything you've devoured is being bathed in a mixture of hydrochloric acid and pepsin. And maybe especially then. I kept this memory of your stomach churning and twisting. I dreamt of your serpentine stretch of guts. I dreamt of chemical intercourse.
I took this memory every night on an empty stomach. Doctor's orders. There were things I wanted to tell you. But I had no time. I was bombarded with the refrigerator's white light. My pupils constricted quickly. I'm sorry. Don’t take it personally. It's a reflexive attempt by the iris. To shield the retina from the assault. Of the refrigerator's white light. You understand. You know the mechanics of this thing. My pupils then dilated because I was in love. You know this, too. You never had to think so much. You just did. You were perfect, with your lips stained, with your photochemical damage. And I kept it. My neurons fired in rapid succession. I interpreted the light. But I didn’t invent it.
My brain sent feedback to my eyes to squint or look away in a desperate attempt to shield me from the exposure. It wanted me to look away. They all wanted me to look away. They were ashamed. Of the white light. Of this memory I kept. Of us. But I kept this memory of you because I was poor and hungry with nothing to eat. I kept this memory in a state of malnutrition, approaching terminal starvation. And not long after, I perished. They searched my body and found this memory. Kept. Under the white light. You can’t prosecute a memory for murder. You can only keep it. And kept it they did. With some childish guilt. With some ancient hunger.
