She ate very little but cried a lot. I laid in bed and though about her while listening to the clock, the tick-tock. Wondering why life wasn't as simple as that sound. Sometimes she was easy: a bath and some tea and she was happy falling asleep in my arms while I touched her hair. Other times, I counted the wounds on her overblown from the alcohol lips while she sobbed on the other side of the couch. I felt so much pity for her and almost guilty about living while she was struggling to exist. You know how you can format your computer and think how you can be all calm because everything has been deleted, but it's not as easy as that. There's always some leftovers and shit left. The same with the brain. Hers worked that way. And after crying a lot she would usually get angry with the world and disappear on me for a couple of weeks. I got used to that too and stopped asking questions. When she came back the sex was amazing. No sadness left. Just a need to feel alive. I couldn't judge her. I mean, who was I to do that, after all? A little branch she grabbed on to get a breather before being dragged by the river. She always came back more loving. She let me kiss her thoughts, touch her feelings and bite her desires. Her religion was sex. The sex of bodies and minds. Oral, both ways. But all her Gods were dead. She criticized a lot, without aspiring to comprehend. She had answers for everyone but herself. I failed to frighten her nor surprise her with nothing. She told me from the beginning that she didn't want to have kids with me because they remind her of aging and death. And that she died too many times already. The only thing she could be embarrassed of was her child, her creation. For, whatever she gave birth to was a sin. But it had such beauty and authenticity... I could never blame her for that.